5 Increasingly Clichéd Meet-cutes Plus 1 Not So Cute-meet
by EZChase
Summary: M/M Part One of The Marvelous Misadventures of Petey-pie and Wade. The full summary is inside, just know that there will be lots love, a bit of anger, so much cuteness, and all-around silliness. Enter at your own risk. [But I think you'll find that it's worth it ;) ]
1. 1, Of Course, Happens on a Rooftop

**A/N** : This fic is an AU that is a conglomeration of all the Spider-Man movies merged with the Deadpool movies, as well as what I can remember from the comics I read as a child. ;p (P.S. I do not own these characters [they belong to _Marvel_ and _21st Century Fox_ respectively]; I only own the situations they find themselves in.)

Update: Now cross-posted on AO3 and Wattpad.

* * *

 _PART ONE:_

5 Increasingly Clichéd Meet-cutes Plus 1 Not So Cute-meet

 _ **Summary**_ : As the title says, this is the first five times Deadpool and Spider-Man (and Wade and Peter) meet, before Peter starts thinking of them as friends, and the one time it all falls apart because Peter doesn't understand that communication is key to working relationships.

* * *

The first time they met, Peter had only been Spider-Man for about a year and a half.

He was sixteen, almost seventeen, a senior at Midtown High, and could only afford to patrol Queens between the hours of 11 PM and 4 AM because he'd had to get a part-time job. He'd gotten the job to ease Aunt May's suspicions about him being Spider-Man (recently, she'd asked him why he always came home sporting bruises in that skeptical tone she used when she wanted to interrogate him but refrained from doing so because she didn't know if she should, which made Peter realize he hadn't been as subtle as maybe he should've been). He was afraid that she'd get a heart attack if she ever found out he was fighting crime and aliens in his free time. Peter couldn't deal with her death.

Not—not after Uncle Ben…and Captain Stacey.

And G—Captain Stacey's daughter (even now, he could barely think her name before falling apart).

Their deaths were still so, so fresh in his mind.

He still felt the guilt of them every single day, unable to talk about the pain, anger, and all-around shame he felt in having had a hand in their demise with anyone, because who could, or would, understand? Not to mention the fact that he couldn't tell anyone he was Spider-Man.

He'd learned that lesson the hard way, with Harry blaming him for his father's death. He still felt horrible for being the cause of Harry taking up his father's work as the Green Goblin.

Peter still woke from his tormented nightmares covered in sweat, afraid his hands were still covered in Ben's blood. The sound of Gw—her spine breaking still echoed in his ears anytime he heard something snap. Captain Stacey's scared, imploring eyes still haunted him every time he saw a squad car or a uniform.

It was the nightmares that made Peter decide to run himself ragged with school, patrolling, and his internship at Oscorp. Keeping himself busy to the point of bone-weary exhaustion meant that he didn't have to worry about the nightmares taking his few hours of sleep away from him. It meant that his dreams couldn't torment him with his many failings as a hero (he really hated that word—preferred vigilante, actually—because he was no hero). If he kept himself busy, he could just fall into bed and pass out without worrying about reliving those nights—no muss, no fuss.

Thus, working on only two hours of sleep (he'd gotten up early to fix May breakfast before her shift at the hospital because that's what you did for people you love), six cups of coffee, four Monsters, and two Red Bulls, Spider-Man found himself swinging through the streets of New York, barely able to keep his eyes open. It was a Wednesday night, and Spider-Man had already stopped several muggings, helped a few kids get away from bullies, and even saved a poodle from a speeding cab.

Spider-Man had just handed the poodle back to its owner when his exhaustion made itself known through the fact that he failed to throw out a new strand of his very own patent-pending silk while he webbed away. He grabbed a nearby lamppost just in time to catch himself from painting the pavement with his insides. This near-death experience convinced him to find a roof to perch on, so he could listen for the crimes that would inevitably happen, rather than accidentally causing his own death by sluggish reflexes.

He blamed his sleep-deprived brain for the reason his Spidey Sense didn't alert him to the blur coming at him when he swung his body up on top of the roof of a nearby high-rise he liked to frequent, because it was right in the heart of his burrow and it had a nice overhang that kept him safe from wind and rain.

When the blur tackled him, it was like being run over by semi-truck and then body slammed into a brick wall. That brick wall resolved itself into large muscles clad in red and black spandex, wearing a panda mask reminiscent of his own, and a rough voice that sang "—like a wreeecking ball" off-key into his ears. Spider-Man who, even when surprised, never lost his balance, grabbed a strap on the man's back and tucked himself into a roll, tossing the man down on the roof and coming up on the balls of his feet. As Spider-Man backflipped himself several feet away, he shot a few wads of webbing at the man that had tackled him, sticking him to the roof by his hands and feet.

It was only then, with space between them and adrenaline coursing through Spider-Man's veins, that Spider-Man was able to take in the weapons strapped to the skintight suit of the man now stuck to the ground. There were two katanas strapped to the man's back, twin guns in holsters on the man's thick thighs, knives sticking out the top of heavy combat boots, and numerous (like so many) pouches on the man's belt and strapped to his chest. It kind of looked like he was wearing a fully functional tactical suit like the ones SWAT members wore, and that instantly put Spider-Man on the defensive because that meant the man webbed to the ground was either ready to take on a significant amount of damage or dole it out.

Spider-Man knew Deadpool by his infamous reputation as the Merc with the Mouth and had heard the many…rather gruesome stories that followed the gun for hire's name. He'd started hearing whispers of the masked man about a year after he'd taken up the Spider-Man mantle, whispers from some of the chattier criminals he'd webbed up. When he'd started digging around for information (in order to learn if he needed to watch out for the mercenary) his search lead him to the X-Men where he'd learned the red and black soldier of fortune apparently had a soft spot for the underdog—liked to help the little guy, kind of like Spider-Man himself. Plus, Logan had seemed reluctantly fond of the "nuisance that is the irritatingly chatty antihero," and Logan was rarely enthusiastic about anything besides his cigars and beer.

The rest of what Spider-Man learned about Deadpool came from the file that Iron Man had tossed his way five months ago. It'd been after the last Skrull invasion, and Tony had said, "read up on this, kid. Make sure you run the other direction and call the big boys if you ever see this guy in your burrow."

Spider-Man remembered reading from the file something about Deadpool having a phenomenal healing factor that could bring the man back from the dead, scars that covered the man's body (though to what extent, no one really knew), and that he was stronger and faster than he looked. Spider-Man also remembered being pissed off that Iron Man still treated him like a kid when he'd battled supervillains and even teamed up with the Avengers and Fantastic Four on more than one occasion. Spider-Man liked the Avengers well enough (even more so when they all went out to eat after a mission and he got free food) because it was like being part of a rather large, dysfunctional family. However, he hated being the "baby" of the group and usually chose to ignore their warnings. He only regretted that about half the time.

A sound pulled Spider-Man from his musings and it took him a minute to realize that Deadpool had been talking ever since he'd crashed into Spider-Man. It took him even longer to follow what Deadpool was saying. When he was able to tune into what Deadpool said, the lenses in his mask narrowed, because Deadpool had somehow freed his hands from the webbing and used them to express his excitement (the file didn't mention that Deadpool would be that strong).

"—and I was just tellin' Yellow that even though tacos go right through us, and it wouldn't be the first time we died on a toilet all Elvis Presley style—ah-huh, thank ya, thank ya very much!—we should stop at that lil truck we found by the park and grab a couple of 'em. Then Whitey informed us that the Skrulls smashed it when they invaded, and that ain't right, Spidey. I'm tellin' ya. But then we saw your sweet ass—I mean for reals, Baby Boy, that ass should be illegal—all thwip-thwipin' through the streets and I just had t'get an autograph on my Spidey tee." Deadpool continued, without taking a breath, "running into you just made our day, Cutie-Man. And dat ass, I swear to Thor's pretty lace panties, mm-mm-mmm. We could do so much damage to dat ass."

"Deadpool," Spider-Man said in his most Captain America Disapproving Hero Voice™ trying to ignore the flush in his cheeks at the praise of his butt, "what are you doing in New York?"

"Gasp! He knows who we are!" Deadpool slapped his hands against his cheeks, and somehow the white eyes of his mask expanded in surprise (how did he make his mask express emotions?), and…did he just…say the word gasp? "Hurry, hurry, where did we put the phone? We need to document this! Spidey knows us!"

"Answer the question Deadpool," Spider-Man said, tilting his head to the side as he heard a car alarm go off in the distance. And then he looked back at Deadpool because, what the hell? He was using the first-person plural to refer to himself. "Why are you in New York?"

"I'm layin' low, Baby Boy. Shut up, we are not singin' a Flow Rida song on our first meetin' with Spidey-babe. Any-who, Baby Boy, some big baddies got wind of my Arizona place an' shot it to hell, which would normally twix my nethers, if you get my meanin', but I'd just got back from a job and all I want is some sleep, so I'm in the big apple goin' to ground," Deadpool said as he grabbed a knife from the top of one of his boots and sliced it through the webbing that strapped him down. He stood, and Spider-Man took a step back, raising his arms in a defensive position, but Deadpool only pulled a rolled-up t-shirt from one of the many pouches on his belt, offering it to Spider-Man along with a white sharpie. "I'm your biggest fan, Webs. Can I get your autograph?"

Spider-Man was not used to people asking for his autograph, as most people in New York City didn't know how to feel about him since the Bugle kept labeling him as a menace to society, and a vigilante, at best. He was especially not used to dangerous, bulky mercenaries fangirling over him like a teenager who just saw their favorite actor take a shirt off. Spider-Man would forever blame Deadpool's knack of circumventing expectations and talking too much for just one person to follow, for the reason he took the offered shirt and sharpie without much thought.

He unrolled the small bundle and immediately thanked all the gods he knew, that he had a full faced mask that was invaluable at covering when he was scared, or blushing, as the case currently was. The shirt was black, with a cartoon version of his vigilante persona shooting a white web down at the bottom of the shirt, and the words "Spider-Man can CUM at me, anytime."

Suppressing a non-hero-like giggle, Spider-Man signed the shirt. He added a little note of his own that read: "Not until after the third date, Big Red," with a smirk, because, well, he was a teenager and even he had to admit the shirt was pretty funny, if a bit gross. He tossed the shirt and marker back to Deadpool and stepped up to the side of the building where he could hear a robbery happening a few streets over.

"No killing in my city, Red, and we won't have a problem," Spider-Man said before flipping himself off the building and swinging away to catch the robber, all to the fading lyrics of "Low" that Deadpool decided to scream-sing after him.

It would take Spider-Man another three nights, during his bimonthly fight with the Green Goblin, for him to realize that the supposedly most dangerous mercenary in the world had never once set off his Spidey Sense. Something he knew was apparently still intact (even when he was running on a weekly amount of five hours of sleep) because it alerted him that several of the pumpkin bombs that the Goblin threw his way in order to make his escape, were about to detonate and collapse an abandoned building on top of him.

This is the reason Spider-Man resigned himself to only keeping an eye on Deadpool if the man stepped out of line. Yet, he was surprised to learn that Deadpool only stayed in the city for a few more days after that first meeting and had actually refrained from killing.

Spider-Man did, however, find a badly beaten mugger the day Deadpool left, with a note stuck to her forehead that read: "One date down, two to go. Love, Big Red."

If Spider-Man kept the note, well, no one would ever know. Besides, the cartoon drawing of Spider-Man and Deadpool sitting at a candlelit table with tacos on the plates in front of them was too cute (if a bit nonproportionate) to throw away.


	2. 2 is the Best Laundromat Happening

The second time they met, it was by accident and they weren't in their costumes. In fact, all Peter Parker had on was his father's thick-rimmed, black glasses and a pair of blue plaid boxers. It was eight months after their first meeting and Peter stood in a laundromat for the first time in his short life.

He was down to his last article of clean clothing (the boxers), trying to do his own laundry because May had gotten suspicious that one time he'd come home from Empire State University to spend the weekend with her. He'd accidentally washed his Spider suit with the whites, turning everything pink and purple and she'd yet to let him live it down.

It was a cold, early September evening and he'd just finished crawling his way through a rigorous number of exams and papers. It was also a few months before Thanksgiving break, and he was already begging for the break to come sooner, so he didn't have to deal with his coursework for a week. The sudden free time Peter found himself saddled with, and the impending week-long vacation looming at the back of his mind was the reason that he found himself fighting with the washing machine. He was trying to figure out how to use the machines in preparation for cleaning all of the clothes he'd brought with him to his dorm for the week of relaxing and helping May out around the house.

If only he could figure out how to turn the crappy machine on.

Peter had chosen two washing machines in the back of the cheap, ramshackle building. He'd chosen his little corner because he wanted to be able to keep an eye on anyone who may start a fight, even though there was only one other person in the place who looked like a hobo just taking shelter from the cold, and he also wanted to be able to hide his half-nakedness from the public eye.

"Are you serious?" Peter grumbled and began kicking the machine with his bare foot after each word, "just—fuckin'—start—you utter piece of—"

"You kiss your Mamma with that mouth, cutie-pie hipster, with the nice ass?" asked a deep voice from the front of the mostly empty laundromat.

Peter gave the man who'd spoken a slow once over starting at his thick black combat boots and sliding up the muscles of the jean-clad legs. He noted that the stranger was a good five inches taller than him and was so very well-built. It had taken Peter a long time to come to terms with his bisexuality, but after Gwen (he could say her name now without choking up, at least, he could within the confines of his own head), he couldn't be with any girls that had her smile. Her laugh. Peter's taste in burly men was the physical opposite of Gwen, and it helped. Peter could see the stranger's biceps strain against the fabric of the oversized hoodie he wore over the tight…was that…the t-shirt Spider-Man had signed for Deadpool that night on the roof?

Peter's eyes finally rose to the man's face, which was covered by a Deadpool mask. The mask itself looked softer like it was made out of cotton. Not made for combat then. He wondered if it felt better against the scars.

"Ugh," Peter said, swallowing the extra saliva that had gathered in his mouth, "my mother's dead. So's my father." It was the only thing Peter could think to say, being as shocked as he was.

"Well shit, this just got uncomfortably awkward. Sorry 'bout your 'rents, legs," Deadpool said, and Peter could tell he was frowning through the thin fabric of the mask. Deadpool then muttered, "because his legs are so long and sexy and it'd be a crime not to acknowledge that."

Peter chose to ignore the second part of the statement because he didn't think it was meant for him to hear.

"Doesn't matter. They've been dead awhile now," Peter said, refusing to even think about Ben, which tended to happen when he thought about his parents or any of the people that had recently died in his life. He gave Deadpool a small smile to ease the tension and nodded to the shirt Deadpool wore. "You a Spider-Man fan?"

Deadpool looked down as if he'd forgotten what he was wearing, then looked up at Peter and said, "hells yeah we are! He's my fave Super! Baby Boy is the goodest—yes, it is a word! Because I said so—hero of 'em all. He didn't even try to detain me when we first met. He trusted me not to unalive anyone in his city. No one trusts us. It ain't done."

Peter smiled at that, because, yeah, he hadn't been thinking when he'd left Deadpool unattended, running on only fumes as he'd been. But he saw now it'd been a good choice. Plus, anyone who didn't set off his Spidey Sense couldn't be all that bad, even if they were deranged assassins.

"Did the Wallcrawler really sign that?" Peter asked after a beat, noticing that he actually enjoyed the flow of conversation with Deadpool. At least it would never get boring.

"Oh yeah! He really did! I ran into him—no, not balls to face like in that one fanfiction, though that was pretty epic—and I wasn't expectin' him to even give me the time a'day, ya know? But he actually signed it, and even left me a fuckin' note! See?!" Deadpool gripped the bottom of his shirt and held it out for Peter to see his own spidery (heh, spidery) handwriting. "Not even the Star-Spangled Goodie-Two-Shoes tee em signed my Cap-plushie even though I asked him extra nice and didn't even take any jobs for a month, which was kinda rude. I also helped the Avenging Hypocrites out with that whole spider robot thing an' all, so I thought to myself, 'Pooly, you been a good boy, you deserve a treat' but Cap was like 'kinda busy right now, son' and he was only impaled in the thigh by one of those robot legs—I was once nearly decapitated, Nearly Headless Nick style, but still managed to eat a 'changa. 'Cept I couldn't swallow, on account o'my severed lungs, ya dig? But hey, that's life, I guess. But it's also why Spidey's my nonproblematic fave! He's a real good guy, ya know, hot stuff?"

Deadpool barely even took a breath while he stuffed his dirty clothes from a cloth satchel into the machine next to Peter's; several of the Deadpool suits get tossed into the washer as well. He smiled at the excited rambling that came from the bulky man. It was soothing to his mind, like one of those guided meditations some of his professors were so obsessed with.

"Anyway, you havin' trouble with the washer? The owner of this place rigs it so that people spend more than they should. I don't blame 'em though. Gotta make a livin' somehow. But since you're so adorable and half-naked, and your pout is like, damn boi, the hottest thing I've ever seen on anyone—besides Spidey's ass, but that's a whole different story—I'll tell ya how to work it, work it real good," Deadpool wiggled his nonexistent eyebrows suggestively but moved to the next washer without making any moves to grope Peter's ass like Peter was expecting from someone who flirted the way Deadpool did. "You gotta jiggle the coin slot like this, and then push it in three times. Ha! That's what he said."

"Huh," Peter said, copying Deadpool's movements and easily getting the machine to start. "Well, that's three whole dollars down the drain."

"The more ya know," Deadpool replied.

He finished with his laundry and then looked over at Peter who'd hopped up on the washer and leaned against the wall. He dragged his abandoned textbook into his lap and began reading. He was exhausted from school, patrol, his internship, and the part-time photography job he'd gotten at the Daily Bugle (he took pictures of himself as Spider-Man since the internship didn't pay), but he forced his eyes open, so he could finish reading the chapter his class had been assigned. When Deadpool had been quiet for over a minute, Peter rolled his head to the side to see what held the attention of the usual chatterbox and noticed the way Deadpool raked his gaze over Peter's practically naked body.

Peter blushed and wished he was in his suit to hide it, because he knew the red would spread to his chest. He decided to make more conversation to take his mind off being in only a thin pair of boxers while being so very obviously checked out by Deadpool, the assassin for hire.

"You're Deadpool, yeah?" Peter questioned, nodding at the suits in the wash, just to have something to say.

"You heard of me, sweet cheeks? And by cheeks, I definitely mean that killer ass you got—it's almost as great as Spider-Man's. Webs has the best booty, you can't convince me otherwise," Deadpool said, leaning against the washer next to Peter's bare legs, but with enough distance between them so it wasn't awkward and was quite unexpectedly respectful. Then he tilted his head like he'd heard someone else speak and said, "yeah I know. Hopefully, Spidey'll ignore the rumors—yes, I know they're true, but we haven't unalived anyone in at least three months. Because, we're turnin' over a new leaf and hopin' Web-boy notices, I told you that."

Peter knew that Deadpool talked to the voices in his head after their very first meeting, and after giving his file (which had been put together by S.H.I.E.L.D. so it was relatively comprehensive) a more careful read through, Peter also understood one of the voices was a representation of Deadpool's darker impulses, while the other was his more logical side. But the no killing was news to him, and Peter didn't know how to feel about that. On the one hand, he was happy the merc wasn't killing anyone, but on the other hand, he wished Deadpool was doing it because he actually wanted to.

Peter did know, however, that his Spidey Sense hadn't gone off yet and Deadpool's voice was lulling him into a sleepy stupor.

"Mhmm," Peter answered, his voice sluggish and slow.

"Well, cutie—"

"Peter," Peter said. He didn't even try to stop himself from saying it, because it wasn't like Deadpool could take an isolated incident, such as them meeting in a laundromat, and just happen to figure out he was Spider-Man.

"Well, Pete, if you've heard of me, then why are you practically falling asleep with a murderer standin' right next to you? It's hella cute, but kinda insane, just so you know, and I would know," Deadpool said, scoffing and folding his hands under his chin. Peter noticed the shiny, red sores, on his thick fingers, like Deadpool had walked through a fire and been severely burned. Peter wondered if they hurt as much as they looked like they did.

"Seems to me, you only kill when you have a reason," Peter shrugged, looking back down at his textbook. "And while I don't at all agree with murder—murder is horrible, it really, really is, and you shouldn't do it, ever—but, I mean, at least you're not like…killing needlessly. You seem kinda like—ugh, that one guy, Lord Elrond…um, oh!—Hugo what's-his-face plays where he wears the Guy Fawkes mask, Vee I think? He, like, shaves Natalie Portman's character's head, tortures her, and falls in love with her…maybe that was a bad example. Anyway, you just said you haven't killed anyone for three months."

Deadpool fell quiet again, which drew Peter out of his drowsy state since Deadpool was rarely silent. Peter pulled his legs up to meet his chest and rested his chin on his knees, glancing at Deadpool again. He was surprised when Deadpool, after what seemed like a moment of speechless internal struggle, suddenly stuck out his hand.

"You're a weird one, Mr. Grinch, and may be crazier than even me since you're all calm and shit talkin' to me like I'm not a hamburger faced, mean sonofabitch. But I like you, ya creeper. Plus, you just pulled out a vague reference even I'm barely familiar with," Deadpool said. "Wade Winston Wilson, at your service."

"Peter Parker," Peter said, taking the warm hand and shaking it. The warmth of Dead—Wade's hand felt nice in the cold air of the laundromat. It sent goosebumps up his arms and made him shiver.

"Nice t'meet'cha, Petey-pie," Wade replied. Then he tilted his head again and said, "he is fuckin' adorable, lookin' like a lazy, sleepy kitty. And look at that, he didn't even flinch at our three-day-old meatball hands."

Peter blushed and opened his mouth to say something, though he didn't know what, but was startled out of the conversation by the loud buzzing of the washers telling him his clothes were done. He was just happy he didn't jump up and cling to the ceiling as he was wont to do when he was really surprised. It was when he was sliding off the washer that he realized he'd yet to let go of Wade's hand.

His blush deepened, and he hastily took back his hand, so he could move his wet clothes to the dryer. When he was finished, Wade showed him how to avoid spending more money on the dryer, and then Peter hopped on top of the dryer, kicking his feet against the front.

He secretly enjoyed the rocking motion of the machines because it helped soothe his tense muscles and helped filter out the sounds around him. His heightened senses sometimes made it hard for his mind to focus, but the lull of the loud machines ran a pleasant buzz through his ears. Wade chattered on in the background, and it took Peter several minutes to realize that his eyes were closed.

He quickly fell asleep.

The snapped his eyes open, forcing the sleep away, only for his eyelids to droop again. The sounds around him faded.

He jerked awake when a gentle hand fell on his knee.

"Heya, Petey," Wade said, his voice oddly hushed like he wasn't used to trying to be quiet, or gentle, "if you're that tired, I'll wake you when your stuff's done. I won't let any baddies getcha while you're sleepin'."

Peter smiled, patted Wade's hand in thanks, curled his legs into his chest, and fell asleep right there on top of the dryer.

True to his word, almost an hour later, Wade woke him up with a tap to Peter's nose, letting him know his clothes were all dry. They parted ways on friendly terms and Peter almost didn't want the pleasant conversation to end.

It took Peter two days to find a card with Wade's number tucked into a pocket of one of the pairs of jeans he'd been cleaning that night. He almost texted the number right then, but he wasn't sure encouraging Wade to hang out with his unmasked (and by default nerdier, more self-conscious, and overall less cool self) was the best idea. However, he did tack the card to the corkboard above the desk in his dorm, right next to the drawing Deadpool had made of him and Spider-Man that first night.


	3. 3 Happens in the Middle of a Fight

The third time they met, it was a week after their second meeting, though Peter was reluctant to call it their second meeting because Deadpool didn't know he was Spider-Man.

Cap called for all-hands-on-deck to help out with the army of Hydra agents who'd decided to swarm New York. Peter took it as an opportunity to release all the stress that had built up when May told Peter that she no longer wanted to stay in his childhood home because it had too many memories of Ben. Peter, being a good nephew, told her he'd help box everything up and find a cheaper place, but inside, his mind was a roiling mess of mixed emotions. The house contained so many good memories from Peter's childhood, and, as he was a millennial, he was even more prone to sentimental nostalgia than most.

Peter didn't want to lose the garage where every Saturday since Peter was old enough to hold a screwdriver, Ben had taught him how to fix something new on the old Jeep he'd loved so much. Peter would miss all the times May had danced around the kitchen while she cooked, all the times Ben sat at the dining room table and helped Peter with his English and History homework, all the times they'd had family movie night in the den with May holding Ben's hand while she rested her head on his shoulder. If May sold the house, he felt like he'd lose all the good things that had been in his life before he'd put on the Spider-Man mask. He really wanted to stop having to lose the things he loved, just because he'd been bitten by a genetically altered spider. But ultimately it was May's decision, and Peter would go along with what she decided.

Consequently, with all his anger and sadness, he found himself taking out his emotions on the Hydra goons that had gathered, as if by the grace of all things Asgardian.

He tossed a wad of webbing at a Hydra agent's face, laughing a bit manically at his own quips.

"—and then I said, that's a tuxedo, not a penguin!" Spider-Man crowed, going so far as to slap his knee. "Can you believe it?!"

All the agents were outfitted with green body armor and plasma taser guns that looked like they'd been inspired by the phasers from Star Trek. He wasn't quite sure why they had those, instead of guns with actual bullets, but he was glad. He usually ended up freaking out anytime he heard a gun go off, not only because the shot echoed through his sensitive hearing like a bomb going off right beside him, but also because it always gave him flashbacks of the night he'd found Ben's lifeless body. And he really didn't need to be reminded of that in the middle of kicking Hydra ass.

One of the goons tried to shoot at him, but Spider-Man dove out of the way, swung himself up and around a lamppost, and drove both of his feet into the man's chest, knocking him out. He webbed the man to the ground and looked up, not seeing anyone from his little faction which had been tasked with the job of cutting the army off before they spread to his home turf in Queens.

He still wasn't sure what Hydra was after, besides causing general chaos and mayhem, (or maybe it was all a diversion to lure one of the heroes out?). It didn't help that none of the Avengers had felt like elaborating either, so Spider-Man just did his best to incapacitate as many of the agents as possible. His plan was to cordon off the main roads with walls of webbing that would be thick enough that, unless the goons had a plasma cannon or repulsor, they wouldn't be able to cut through. However, somehow Spider-Man found himself on a side street, having had to deal with four stragglers, and cut off from Hawkeye, Falcon, and Scarlet Witch.

Spider-Man sighed.

If the Avengers could pull their heads out of their asses to at least give him a commlink (he'd stopped wanting to join the team right around the time he realized that all of them did their utmost to leave him out of potential boss fights because they didn't want him to get in the way), he'd be able to call for back up, or, you know, actually join his team and tell them his plan. As it was, Spider-Man didn't have time for either because a fresh group of twenty or so soldiers had just been air dropped right in front of him. Well, at least he now knew how they were getting into the city, though that information still didn't help, seeing as he didn't have a fucking comm.

"Well, hiya guys!" Spider-Man said, waving at his attackers and forcing himself to calm down so he'd be able to pull his punches and not make Jell-O out of anyone's insides with his strength, which would just be gross. "Is this the part where you try to charge at me all at once instead of, you know, being strategic about it?"

The group charged at him all at once.

Spider-Man let out a tsk-tsk and slammed the closest goons into the nearest wall with a length of webbing.

"You all just don't learn, do ya?" he asked.

He webbed a phaser (he was going to call them that because, while Hydra might be big and scary and evil, their scientist had made legit phasers. What the actual fuck kind of geeky evil scientist worked for Hydra?) out of a woman's hand saying, "you look better in red, Lieutenant Uhura. Maybe you should have Scotty beam you up."

He laughed and ducked her fist, sticking her to a mailbox with some of his webbing.

"Curly, Larry, Moe, nice of you guys to join us," Spider-Man said as he webbed three guys to a lamppost, using the momentum to backhand spring a kick into another person's jaw and send them and the girl to their right into a glass storefront. Even Spider-Man winced at that one, but then he kept moving.

"Wanna know something I heard, the other day?"

One of the goons actually asked "what?" as he tried to shoot Spider-Man's legs.

Laughing, Spider-Man just jumped and clung to the nearest thing, which happened to be the wall of an alley, webbed the man's phaser away from him and said, "this doesn't belong to you. It's the property rights of Universal Pictures now. Anyway, you wanna know the best part of a joke?"

The guy leaned down as if to grab one of the phasers that had fallen, and Spider-Man punched the soldier across the face, sending him flying backward.

"The punch line! Get it?"

Just as Spider-Man took out three more men, his Spidey Sense went off, and he turned just in time to see the street explode and send a body flying at him.

He heard a shout of, "yippee-ki-yay motherfuckers—look out!" from a now familiar voice, just before he was tackled to the ground by six feet and two inches of solid muscle. The breath was knocked from his lungs, his head hit the pavement hard, and he felt an intense wave of heat rake down his sides. The man on top of him let out a pained grunt but soon the heat dissipated, and everything was quiet.

Spider-Man laid there, dazed and disoriented with his face pressed uncomfortably into concrete, his heart beating frantically in his ears, and the uneven breaths from the body above him soothing his nerves, oddly enough. After a minute of catching his breath, Spider-Man bucked his assailant off him, rolled several feet away, and stood. He took a moment to make sure no one had been seriously harmed by the small explosion before he even acknowledged the unmoving red and black suit on the ground to his left.

The explosion had been set off behind him, and the intensity of the blast had pushed the remaining Hydra agents into the mouth of the ally they'd been standing next to. Spider-Man noticed that while some of the soldiers looked a bit charred, no one seemed to have anything worse than a concussion.

He walked back over to Deadpool, gripped him by his arm, pulled him up, and said, "we've gotta stop meeting like this, Red. You okay?"

The whole back of Deadpool's suit was burnt black, smelled liked cooked…something. He shook his head, but the word escaped him. He likely also had a concussion. In his distracted state, Spider-Man patted out a few mini fires that had settled up near Deadpool's broad shoulders. However, the moment Spider-Man went from patting out the fires to kind of just…petting, Deadpool slid out of his grasp and laughed manically.

"Oh, Baby Boy, that was fun! Of course, I'm okay. Nothin' like a nice s'plosion in the mornin' to grow some hair on a man's ballsack—wait…I think that's the wrong expression," Deadpool said, his voice a bit too light and unconcerned for Spider-Man to believe him. But they didn't have time to argue, and right now Spider-Man couldn't afford to worry about him.

"Okay, well, I'm glad to have the backup. Thanks for taking the brunt of the fire," Spider-Man said, checking his web shooters to make sure they hadn't been harmed when he'd tried to catch himself after Deadpool had knocked him to the ground. He'd been fighting for at least half an hour and knew fluid in the tiny glass tubes would be good for another two. "Did you happen to see where the others are? We need to regroup. I have a plan."

"They're not too far away, maybe two or three streets," Deadpool said unsheathing one of his katanas, pulling out one of the twin pistols at his thighs, and making a move to leave the alley. He stopped dead when Spider-Man turned around, facing his back to Deadpool and bent his knees. "Uh, Spidey, not that I mind the view, but what the fuck are you doin'?"

He looked over his shoulder and giggled at Deadpool's miffed tone, taking it as the victory it was for being unpredictable to the most unpredictable man on the planet.

"It'll be faster if I swing us there. Get on."

"Uh," Deadpool said, and Spider-Man wondered for half a second if he'd broken the man's brain more than it usually was. But then he sheathed his sword, holstered his gun, and full body shook himself like a dog shook out water from its fur.

"Hells yeah, Spidey-babe! I'm gonna Bella Swan the shit outta this—that is to say, I'm a fuckin' spider-monkey you. Hah! Spider! Get it?"

Deadpool launched himself at Spider-Man's back laughing like the maddest hatter in the world. Spider-Man grunted with the force of all 210 pounds of the man jumping on him, but he had them up and swinging across the street in no time.

"You watch Twilight?" Spider-Man asked because he couldn't help it, he had a sick need to acknowledge Deadpool's commentary. "Dude that's nasty."

Deadpool gasped and slapped a hand on Spider-Man's shoulder but otherwise stayed still.

"You take that back, Spidey. That book has tons of potentially awesome world building and characterization. Well, obviously, not in Bella and Edward, those dicks are teenaged, emo assholes. I'm talking about Jasper in the vamp' war, or Rosalie takin' on her rapists," Deadpool said. "If Meyers had just unalived Bella and Edward in the first chapter, and focused on some hot Alice on Jasper action, I woulda been toats happy. And what the fuck was that shit she tried to pull with Jacob and Nessy? How about, no. He was in love with her mom—wanted to bang her an' shit—an' now he's all up on baby girl? I don't fuckin' think so. I mean, why didn't we hear more about Leah, bein' the only fuckin' female wolf in the history of the tribe?! But no, she focused on the fucked up, borderline abusive—yes it was abusive—relationship between a centuries-old vamp and a sulky tween. Jesus fuck no wonder why it has a bad ass reputation, and not the good kind of bad or ass, such as yourself, Baby Boy."

"But then it'd be Game of Thrones if they died, and the two cannot compare," Spider-Man supplied with a chuckle when Deadpool finally took a breath. "Jon and Dany make a better couple, anyway. Still a better love story than Twilight."

"Ooooh, Baby Boy, do I have news for you—"

"No spoilers! Or I swear I'll drop you," Spider-Man shouted over his shoulder, jostling Deadpool for good measure. The bulky merc let out a high-pitched shriek and clutched his shoulders tighter. "I mean it, Red. I haven't seen past when Joffery died."

"The fuck, Spidey-babe?" Deadpool asked, scandalized. "You're missing, like, everything. And there's like three more seasons and the last half of the fourth one."

Spider-Man just laughed at how genuinely distressed Deadpool seemed to be over this new fact about the hero.

Deadpool launched into a lecture on the merits of the next few seasons, being surprisingly careful of his words as not to give away anything. Spider-Man just let the ex-soldier's voice wash over him as he webbed up to the rest of the team, avoiding stray taser bolts shot from the Hydra agents. He wasn't used to carrying people on his back while webbing through the city, but Deadpool stayed pretty balanced and didn't throw off his equilibrium.

Well. He didn't.

Until his rant ended, and he decided to scream, "we're soaaaaring, flyyyying, there's not a star in heaven that we can't—oh shit I think I'm gonna hurl," right into his ears as Spider-Man somersaulted over a low roof.

"If you puke on me I will kick you into a wall and web you to said wall, like a bug," Spider-Man shouted at him, flipping them both in the air so he could toss out another web and change streets. He wasn't feeling very violent towards the red and black masked man, but he really didn't want puke on him. It was hard to wash out of the stretchy fabric of his suit, as he knew all too well.

Deadpool made a choked sound, gripped Spider-Man's shoulders hard, and said, "well, well, Webs. Didn't peg ya for the kinky type. Haha! Peg! As in my di—"

"I know what you meant!" Spider-Man said, blushing and thanking Thor when he saw the group of Hydra soldiers closing in on Scarlet Witch.

Spider-Man landed next to her and punched one of the goons in the face, surprised when Deadpool didn't linger on his back. He slid off immediately, charging into a group of Hydra agents with a manic laugh and a shout of "Surprise motherfuckers!" and "Rue dies motherfuckers!"

After webbing a few of the agents to the nearest available surfaces, Spider-Man took a moment to appreciate Deadpool in the midst of battle. He kept up a constant stream of commentary, which wasn't surprising when his moniker of Merc with a Mouth was literally because he couldn't shut up, but the guy was seriously funny.

The way Deadpool ducked and dodged around punches and bullets, kicked and flipped over the heads of some of the goons, much to their surprise, and contorted his body in ways even Spider-Man wasn't sure he could pull off himself, in order to both slice with his katana and shoot his pistol, was so…beautiful. Deadpool looked like he was dancing, the way he moved so smooth, so graceful. Spider-Man realized that he was just as dangerously skilled as Black Widow, though he was more willing to take the bullets than Widow ever was. And though he'd maimed a few people, none of them were dead. Which gave Spider-Man pause.

It seemed like Deadpool had been serious about turning over a new leaf.

A "Spider-Man, behind you!" and the sharp, almost painful, shriek of **MOVE!** from his Spidey Sense jolted him out of watching the mercenary. He turned his head to the side just as a plasma blast whizzed right by his cheek, a hairsbreadth away.

Right. Battle.

He should probably help with that.

"I have a plan!" he shouted at Scarlet Witch, shoving an agent away from him and punching him in the stomach. "Tell Hawkeye to cover me, I'm gonna seal off the end of the street."

The battle was a blur after that.

He sealed the streets with his webs and tried his best not to take any of the taser blasts, and eventually bullets, when the agents lost their phasers, to the heart or head. By the time he'd finished and dropped down from one of the buildings he'd been crawling, in search of the last of the agents, he was exhausted and just wanted to go home to sleep for the next twenty years. A commotion further down the street caught his attention though, and he went to investigate it, considering he'd thought they'd gotten all of the Hydra goons they'd somehow missed the first time.

"—and a menace to this city! He deserves to be in custody!" It was a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, holding a pair of handcuffs out towards a slumped over Deadpool, who wasn't talking back. The hair on the back of Spider-Man's neck rose and alarm bells went off in his head.

Deadpool was rarely ever quiet.

"He literally just saved our asses," came a reply to the agent in the form of Hawkeye who stood protectively in front of Deadpool. "And he's obviously injured. You're not taking him."

"He has arrest warrants in over twenty—"

"Hey, you. Yeah, you. Unnamed S.H.I.E.L.D. agent," Spider-Man said, pointing at the average-joe looking guy with sunglasses on, even though it was cloudy and there was no reason to be wearing sunglasses.

Both the agent and Hawkeye turned to look at him.

Clint gave him a Nod of Acknowledgement™ and signed, "you okay?"

Spider-Man nodded and continued, "take a look around you, guy. Deadpool hasn't killed anyone at all today. Or in the past three months. Lay off 'em, wouldya? He's hurt."

Spider-Man knelt down next to Deadpool and gently rolled him onto his back to take in the damage. He had a bullet hole in his head and his suit was all kinds of torn from what looked like a litany of knife and bullet wounds (…and were those…bite marks?) but there was too much dried blood to tell.

"Jesus," he said to himself, "this has gotta hurt like sh—like the dickens."

Clint snorted at his catch in language, and Spider-Man couldn't help but flip him off. Peter tried to keep his cussing down when he was Spider-Man because of how many run-ins with little kids he had, but sometimes that was harder than it seemed. Even though May had raised him right, cussing was just part of his youth culture (or so he defended when May threatened him with bars of soap for dinner).

Just then Deadpool sat up, screaming, "but I don't wanna eat the banana hat of shame!" then actually took in his surroundings.

"Goddamn, I feel like I've been run through the meat grinder, ate by a goat, and then shat out," Deadpool sighed as he rubbed his head with a hand that was missing two fingers. "Hey Spidey, does this count as the second date?"

Clint, who choked on his own spit, took that moment to lead the now spluttering S.H.I.E.L.D. agent away signing, "take care of him and I won't tell" to Spider-Man as they walked away.

Spider-Man nodded and stood, holding his hand out for Deadpool to take.

"No. And neither does our first meeting. Plus, goats don't eat meat, Red," Spider-Man sighed, helping the antihero up.

"I know that wasn't a 'no' to the actual dating part," Deadpool said to what must've been one of the voices in his mind. He shook his head like he was trying to get water out of his ears.

"We're not dating, Deadpool," Spider-Man answered. He just knew his face was beat red under his mask. Plus, even if he liked how ripped (of course in the muscular sense) Deadpool was, that didn't excuse the fact that Wade was like, twenty years older than him. And he was barely legal. "You're covered in blood, Wade. I'm pretty sure that's a dating faux pas."

"Hells bells my name sounds so pretty on your pretty lips! Well, I just know they're pretty because, I mean, come on. Girl look at dat body," Deadpool said, then tilted his head to the side and stumbled a bit when Spider-Man let him go. "Yeah, you're right. Hey Webs, when did we tell you our name?"

That drew Spider-Man up short. Because, fuck, that had been while he was Peter.

"Uh, well, it isn't like it's the world's best-kept secret," Spider-Man tried, slinging Deadpool's arm around his shoulders when he realized Deadpool was missing a leg.

Deadpool laughed and leaned heavily against Spider-Man's side.

"That's true. It is on my Craigslist page," he amended, starting to hop down the street with Spider-Man carrying most of his weight, not that it was a problem with his super strength. Spider-Man knew better than to ask where they were going. At this point, he just hoped it wasn't into even more trouble, though with Deadpool at his side, that was highly unlikely. "Say, you been researchin' me Webhead?"

"You could say that," Spider-Man replied, happy that Deadpool was no longer suspicious. "Or, you could say that you're an infamous merc who's reputation proceeds them. And I know some chatty cat burglars."

"I didn't know you cared, Baby Boy! Also good on you, getin' some of that pussy. Get it. Because Black Cat," Deadpool laughed, and something in Spider-Man's chest loosened at the sound. It was a genuine laugh and he had the feeling Deadpool rarely ever had reason to genuinely laugh.

"I'm not getting with Black Cat," Spider-Man said, rolling his eyes, and pulling Deadpool to his side even more, easily holding the man up, even though he was nearly a head shorter. "She's a villain. I can't date her. I just web her up for the cops—"

"O-ho-ho, Baby Boy, you a kiss an' tell kinda guy?" Deadpool's voice was teasing, but it had gained a bit of an edge. Spider-Man wondered what he'd said to cause that to happen.

"Anyway, I just wanted to really thank you for your help today," Spider-Man said, realizing that they were walking towards the best hole in the wall Mexican food place that side of Harlem.

"It ain't nothin' but a thang, Baby Boy," Deadpool said, scratching the back of his masked head like he wasn't used to genuine thanks coming from anyone.

Spider-Man frowned.

That had to suck—if he didn't hear May say thanks at least a little bit when he did nice things for her, he'd definitely be discouraged to keep doing them. No wonder why Deadpool's good deeds were so few and far between.

"Well, you did really good work today, Red. I appreciate you, not, as you say, unaliving anyone," Spider-Man continued, noticing that Deadpool's muscles were getting tenser by the second. "So, thanks for not killing as well."

Deadpool suddenly pushed out of Spider-Man's grip and turned away from him.

"Well I'd love to stay and chat, but I gotta see a man about a unicorn," Deadpool said, tapping at his belt. Spider-Man was caught speechless, unsure of what had just happened. "And that man is myself—because unicorn porn is a thing. And we're gonna touch ourselves tonight."

And then he just kind of…vanished.

Spider-Man stood there, speechless, for a few long minutes before shrugging and heading home. It wasn't like standing there would bring Deadpool back. Or explain why he'd left so quickly.

When he tumbled into his tiny dorm room through the small window that faced the alley, he flopped onto his bed, pulling out his cellphone and looking at the number that he'd been agonizing over for the past several days.

Finally, he tapped out:

 _ **Sent. 6:30 pm**_

 _Found that card you left in my jeans._

 _That was a pretty smooth move._

It wasn't until after Peter had taken his suit off, showered, and was making ramen by way of his cheap five-dollar coffee pot, that his phone chimed with an incoming text.

 _ **Received. 7:13 pm**_

 _Petey u gotta clean ur jeans more often_

 _than that_

Peter grinned and sat back in his bed.

 _ **Sent. 7:15 pm**_

 _Who said it took me this long to find it?_

Peter got up to get his ramen and a pair of chopsticks.

He'd just settled back into bed, his laptop open to his pilfered Netflix account from his neighbor Ned (who was a pretty chill guy, and he should probably make more effort to have friends—not that it'd ever worked out well for him), that his phone pinged with several incoming texts.

 _ **Received. 7:27 pm**_

 _Gasp!_ U left _me hangin'?_

 _ **Received. 7:28 pm**_

 _That's rude_

 _ **Received. 7:28 pm**_

 _I like rude tho BB ;)_

 _ **Received. 7:28 pm**_

 _My safe word's Bananas_

 _ **Received. 7:29 pm**_

 _B-A-N-A-N-A-S!_

Peter's stomach did a weird, warm tingle thing when he saw the acronym he knew meant "baby" but that he replaced as "baby boy" in his head since Deadpool insisted on calling Spider-Man that.

He ignored the fuzzy feelings it gave him, because of course that couldn't be a good sign, and hey, maybe the milk he'd just drank was a bit too expired.

He spent the rest of the evening texting Wade who'd decided to watch Breaking Bad since Peter had mentioned that was what he was watching. So, what if they were technically watching it together now? Wade's comments were gold and it was nice to have someone to appreciate his sense of humor. They could be friends, right?


	4. 4 is Happenings in the Same Building

The fourth time they met, Peter was in the middle of pulling a giant box out of a moving truck and setting it on the curb with all of the furniture May hadn't wanted to keep, trying to make it look like he was struggling even though he could carry twenty times that. It was four months after their last meeting.

In that time, Peter had helped May pick a low rent place and helped her move in. He had found a tiny apartment for himself that wasn't in the best neighborhood, but it wasn't the worst, either (he was Spider-Man, so he could take care of himself, and he was also a poor college kid, so he didn't have much by way of possessions). His new place was also much closer to school without being as cramped as his dorm, and cheaper too because someone (or someones, judging by the multiple russet splatters on his puke green walls) had been killed there.

Even though he'd quit the internship at Oscorp, paranoid Harry was keeping tabs on him, and had accepted the assistant position at Stark Industries, which actually paid, it still didn't give him enough to cover his tuition, rent an apartment, buy groceries, and still have money to repair his Spider-Man gear, not in New York City at least. So, he kept his other job at the Bugle where they slandered his good name (well, not his, but he was Spidey, so it counted) just so he could get some quick cash for the pictures.

He heard a cat-call presumedly directed at him, considering he was the only other person on the street, just as he bent to set the box down on the concrete sidewalk. Peter scowled, stood, and turned around ready to chew out the asshole who'd whistled when he locked gazes with the white eye-holes of a Deadpool mask.

"Wade?" Peter asked incredulously, stuffing his hands into his pockets for lack of anything better to do.

Peter's eyes were arrested by the bulky figure Wade cut in his form-fitting jacket and worn jeans. It was December and Wade wore his ever-present combat boots. His double layer of a red wool jacket and hoodie over a tight black Rent t-shirt made Peter's fingers itch to touch the jacket's fleece inside, to see if it really was as soft as it looked—it definitely wasn't because Peter wanted to run his fingers over Wade's muscular chest or washboard abs (if his spandex suit was to be believed), no sir.

Wade carried an armload of paper bags filled with groceries and when he shifted them for a better grip, Peter could see a shoulder holster with Wade's favorite Desert Eagle pistols (Wade had told him through text one day that their names were Bonnie and Clyde and his beloved katanas were named Bea and Arthur, in honor of his love for Golden Girls) nestled next to his side. Peter was suddenly reminded that Wade could very well kill him without blinking, should he choose to do so. He was an interesting juxtaposition of danger and boy-next-door that had warm feelings fluttering in the pit of Peter's stomach at just the sight of him.

He ignored the little voice in the back of his head that told him that was exactly how he'd felt about Gwen, and more recently, Liz Allen. But the thing he'd almost had going with Liz had blown up in his face when he'd taken her to the homecoming football game as their first date (personally, Peter kind of hated football because Flash, who'd bullied Peter all through high school, had been on the football team and ruined the sport for him—Liz, however, had been really into it, and Peter was nothing if not a giver). He'd found out the man he'd been investigating for illegal arms dealing and weapon manufacturing, the man who went by the codename "Vulture," was actually Liz's father. So, yeah. You can imagine how that played out once Vulture was finally arrested.

Then Liz decided to move.

Even worse, he'd needed Iron Man's help during one of the battles before he was able to put Vulture away. Thus, Iron Man had even more ammunition to throw at Peter for why he wasn't allowed to join the Avengers since he couldn't even "take down a lowly arms dealer, Spider-kid." And the rest, as they say, was history.

But then there was Wade. Wade was uncomplicated in a way that had Peter hooked from the very first moment. Wade didn't push for more, didn't ask for anything, really. He just took whatever Peter had time for at the end of the day when he wasn't working, wasn't beating up bad guys, wasn't in class or doing homework. Wade was a no-strings-attached kind of guy, and Peter sort of really needed that safety net. They'd texted on and off since that first time, but it was mostly Peter sending Wade hilarious memes and Wade sending Peter his reaction to the memes as well as pictures of the random things he was up to when Peter happened to text. They had a standing text-date for every Thursday between 5 AM and 8 AM to watch shows together (he'd long since given up any semblance of regular sleep patterns after the first week of classes) and Peter was quickly becoming attached to the mercenary (he'd always worn his heart on his sleeve, but this kind of easy affection almost scared him).

"Heya there, Petey-pie," Wade said. "What's a boy like you, moving into a girl like this?"

Wade shook his head then, and murmured, "no, I don't think he's following us. Because, moron, we haven't seen him for like five months."

Peter smiled and nodded at the front door.

"No, not following you. I wanted to move closer to school but still have breathing space. You live around here?"

"Yup, same complex as you, it looks like," Wade said, pointing to the building. "Where's your auntie, anyway? Don't'cha live with her?"

"She's back at our old place grabbing the last load of stuff she didn't want to take to her new place," Peter replied, moving back to the truck and unloading another box. He'd told Wade a bit about his childhood and how he'd grown up through several comments while they'd texted—though he was very surprised the mercenary remembered. He was sure Deadpool had more pressing issues that filled his head. "She should be here in the next few hours."

"I'll go put these up," Wade said, crinkling the bags in his arms as he eyed the mountain of furniture and boxes Peter had stacked on the curb, "then I'll come back and help you lug your shit up to your place."

"You don't havta do that, Wade," Peter said, setting the last box on the ground and running a hand through his unruly hair that never wanted to stay flat, no matter what he did to it. Then he rubbed some warmth into his fingers since it was hella cold out, though it still hadn't snowed, and he'd forgotten to put gloves on.

"I know I don't, Cutie-Pete, but I'd feel bad if you got robbed or propositioned by any of the other dirty hobos that live around here," Wade answered, and Peter could tell he was smiling.

"Wade…did you just call yourself a dirty hobo? And are you propositioning me?"

"Promises, promises," he said before walking up the steps with a chuckle and a wave. "I'll be back quicker than you can say 'Regina, Saskatchewan rhymes with fun.' Which is where I'm from bee tee dubs."

Wade's voice faded as he walked into the building, but Peter's super hearing picked up, "no we can't touch the butt—because he's like…thirteen, that's why. We don't do jailbait—that's a hard limit, no."

Peter shook his head and lugged a few of the boxes up to his new apartment just to have something to do instead of focus on the weird mixed feelings he tended to get in his stomach when it came to Wade Wilson. True to his word it didn't take Wade long to come back down, and in no time, they had all the boxes and furniture moved into the small apartment on the second floor.

They took a break after settling everything in and Peter found himself sitting on the counter drinking a cup of water from the tap. Wade leaned his back against the kitchen island with his arms crossed, facing Peter as he slowly sipped at a can of Sunkist grape soda May insisted on him keeping around even though she didn't drink it and Peter had lost his taste for it when Ben passed.

It took Peter a few minutes of running his eyes over Wade's chest because he'd taken off the jacket and hoodie, leaving him in the t-shirt over a long-sleeved thermal (yeah, the man should stop wearing tight shirts because it was distracting) to notice that Wade was working himself up into yet another rant.

"—which is why I now reside on the third floor of this less shitty building and not with that blind ol'fart, Althea. Do you even wanna know how much nursing homes cost? A fuckin' arm and leg, that's what and lemme tell ya, Pete, that's a helluva lot, considering I've lost both before," Wade said shaking his head. "I'll tell ya, they call me a criminal, but what's criminal is the prices of everything now, man. Time was when I could walk down to the corner store and buy candy for a fuckin' penny. A penny, Petey-pie. But she needed someone to take care of her in her old age—not that she can't take care of herself, mind, cus she's a cunning ol'bat who used to work for British Intelligence, but I just feel responsible for her these days and I can't be responsible for a broken hip, fractured ribs, and blindness. I just can't Petey-pie."

"You live on the third floor?" Peter asked as that was the only piece of information he'd been able to retain from Wade's word vomit.

"Yep! 303, that's me," Wade said, hooking his thumb towards his chest. "Haha! Like the band. Plus, you really can't trust me. Damn. You're right, that did rhyme. We're awesome!"

Peter smiled at that and couldn't stop himself from singing, "do the Hellen Keller and talk with your hips," under his breath. So, sue him if he knew all the words, it was a catchy song and part of his childhood.

His soft singing prompted Wade to pull out his phone, look up the song on YouTube, and hit play.

He pushed himself off the counter and grabbed Peter's hand, pulling him up so that they were chest to chest. Peter gulped at the feel of Wade's well-defined pecs pressed against him.

"Dance with me Petey!" Wade said, breaking the spell Peter had found himself under. He twirled Peter out only to pull him back in, settle his warm hands on Peter's waist, and swing their hips in time with the music singing, "black dress, with the tights underneath, I got the breath of the last cigarette on my teeth!" Peter laughed and danced with Wade, having the sinking suspicion that it was easier to go along with Wade's antics than it was to say "no". Plus, it was rather fun.

They moved together as if they'd been doing it forever, dancing into each other's personal space before whirling away at the last second. It was one-part serenading each other with interpretive dancing and two-parts singing in silly falsettos and making faces at each other, and it was…not something Peter ever thought he'd find himself doing on a Wednesday, at four in the afternoon.

His heart melted a little bit at the innocence the moment brought out in Wade.

Towards the end of the song, Peter danced his fingers down Wade's arm along with the "she wants to touch me, she wants to love me" lyrics and then twirled away, only to find the couch at his back.

Wade went to try and catch him, but the momentum just made both of them topple over the back onto the cushioned front. They collapsed into laughter at the ridiculousness of the situation, Wade trying his best not to crush Peter who was underneath him. Peter's chest pressed down into the cushions, but it wasn't uncomfortable, and that was when he suddenly realized that he didn't mind the older man's weight on top of him. It reminded him of the day Deadpool had protected him from the fire of that explosion. It made him feel warm and safe and calm.

They were in the middle of catching their breaths when a throat cleared and broke them out of the companionable silence they'd fallen into.

Peter looked up to see May standing in the doorway, box under one arm, and an eyebrow raised.

"Peter Benjamin Parker," she said, her voice either suppressing anger or amusement—Peter could never actually deduce which, when it came to her, "would you care to introduce me to your guest?"

Wade jumped off Peter then, sticking his hand out towards the older woman. He scratched at the back of his neck with his free hand where his mask had ridden up. It was a movement that Peter had gathered meant Wade was uncomfortable and two seconds away from bolting.

"The name's Wade Wilson. Or Deadpool. Whichever you prefer. And can I just say? I now understand where Pete gets his good looks from, Miss May."

Both of May's eyebrows rose then. She turned to Peter for an explanation.

"He's a friend," Peter summed up, rolling off the couch and tossing Wade his phone to turn off the next song that had begun to play. Wade caught the device and fiddled with it, making Peter wonder if he was nervous to meet his aunt. "I met him at a laundromat, where he helped me figure out the machines. We're texting buddies. I didn't know he lived here, but he saw me unloading the boxes and offered to help."

"Oh? Well then, thank you, Mr. Wilson," May said with a nod, dropping the box she'd been holding. She tossed Peter the keys to her car, which he easily plucked from the air and shoved into his pocket. "Then you two capable gentlemen can take care of the rest of the stuff while I whip something up for supper."

"That's not necessary, Miss May," Wade said, shuffling his feet. "I don't wanna impose or put you out."

"Nonsense. It's payment for your help. Now off with the both of you," May shooed both men out the door, tossing her greying brown hair over her shoulder. "I have some rearranging to do."

After moving the last of the possessions (which weren't many because the space was already small to begin with) into the new apartment and helping arrange some of it, they mindlessly chatted with May while Wade cut the veggies for the stew May was making and Peter set the tiny table.

"So, Mr. Wilson, how old are you?" May asked as she stirred the pot, shooting a raised brow at the masked man's back.

"Forty-five," Wade answered. The hand not holding the knife twitched, and Peter noticed that Wade was wearing a pair of soft cotton gloves. He wondered if they'd been dirty that day at the laundromat since he hadn't worn them then. "And please call me Wade, Miss May. Wilson was my pops, and he wasn't nothin' gentlemanly to deserve the 'mister' if ya get my meanin'."

"Oh?" May said, turning her look on Peter; he didn't know what her tone was, but he didn't appreciate it. "We're nearly the same age."

"Age twins!" Wade said with excitement, but the knife twitched in his hand and his voice was too light. The last time that happened he'd vanished, so Peter moved closer to him, though he didn't know what he could do to help. "I really don't know what Petey was thinkin' talkin' to some sorry old dude in a laundry mat. No sense of self-preservation, that nephew of yours, Miss May."

"Oh yes, I do know that. Would lose his head if it wasn't glued to his shoulders," May said, turning back to the stew. "Okay, boys. I think this is just about done. Wade, dear, please put the veggies in."

Wade was quick to follow the orders and then dart away. Peter felt bad about allowing the interrogation, so he waited until May said a quick, "thank you," before pulling Wade out into the living room.

"You okay?" he asked, running his hands up and down Wade's arms without much thought. He was generally a cuddle-monster and when he saw distress, his first instinct was to soothe. He wasn't a hero just because he could climb walls.

"Yeah, Petey-pie. 'Course I am," Wade said, backing away to flop on the couch. Peter followed but kept the space between them. Maybe Wade wasn't a touchy person?

"Okay, dude," Peter said, switching tact, "sorry about the third degree. May's a bit over-protective of me."

"It's alright, Petey. Really," Wade said, finally looking Peter in the eyes (well as much as one could look directly at eye-holes without knowing for sure if they were making eye contact or not). "You're lucky you have someone who loves you enough to do that. 'Sides, she seems like a pretty cool lady and tough as nails, which is the best combo—trust me."

"Mm, yeah, she is," Peter agreed, itching to curl up against Wade's side and burrow into the heat he felt radiating off him. The heat in his apartment wouldn't get turned on for another day or so. "Wade, are you—do you not like to be touched?"

"Huh?" was the intelligent response he received.

Peter smiled affectionately—he found that he adored catching Wade off guard.

"Because, I'm a touchy-feely kinda person, but I don't wanna make you uncomfortable if you aren't," Peter iterated, "hashtag, consent is sexy."

Wade gaped at him for a moment and then gaped at him some more.

"I know what he just said, I'm not Hawkeye—deaf you idiot—I just don't think he actually said that," Wade mumbled to, Peter assumed, the voices in his head. "Sorry, Petey. I just hallucinated. What did you say?"

Peter laughed and moved a bit closer then turned at the last second to pull his knees up to his chest.

"First, ten points to Hufflepuff for the Legally Blonde reference," Peter said.

"Pete!" Wade mock gasped, "how did you know?!"

"Duh, you find people for a living, Wade. And you're good at it." Then in his best Scottish brogue, which, to say, was not good at all, Peter said, "yer a finder Harry."

Peter was sure the entire city heard the nerdy snort-laugh Wade let out at that comment.

"Anyway, second," Peter said when Wade's giggles had subsided, "I said that I want you to tell me if you mind being touched. Consent. Is. Sexy. Even if it's consent for, like, non-sexy actions. Like a hug."

"Oh, Petey-pie, Petey, my cutie Pete-Pete—"

"Ew, no. Not that last one. That was gross."

"—I'm so damned touch starved that sometimes it's…too much, ya know? You just give it out like it's free fuckin' candy for just anyone to take—fuck you I'm tryna be for reals with Pete—and I just ain't used to it."

"Oh," Peter said, digesting that news. "So, I just have to let you get used to it?"

"Did we not just say—no, no. Stop it. He didn't say that Yellow, dammit," Wade squeezed his head with his hands so tight, Peter was sure he was actually crushing his own skull like Khan did in Star Trek: Into Darkness.

Peter moved to lean against Wade's side and gently unclutched Wade's hands from his head.

"Hey, hey," Peter soothed, infusing his voice with as much warmth as he could, "it's okay, Wade. Tell the voices—"

"Boxes."

"I…what?"

"I see text boxes. One's white and one's yellow. That's who I talk to."

"Oh. Well, okay. Tell the boxes to shut their fuckin' mouths and let you be. We were having a great conversation until they interrupted," Peter said, unsure if he was saying the right thing. It's not like psychology was his chosen scientific field.

There was a pregnant pause and then Wade let out a sigh that was like a balloon slowly letting out air. Wade even seemed to deflate a bit as he relaxed into the circle of Peter's arms.

"Huh. They're complaining, but not sayin' anything rude anymore," Wade said softly. "Thank you, Petey-pie."

"Any time, Re—Wade," Peter said, catching himself before he could let Spider-Man's nickname for Deadpool slip from his lips.

"Okay, boys. Dinner is—" May walked over then, critically eyeing the way her nephew had twisted his body protectively around the older (much, much older—she'd never forget that, forty-fricking-five) man and held his hands tightly. She knew Peter was touchy, but this was something else. This was…possessive and, somehow also loving. And she doubted Peter even realized it (the boy could be so stupid for being so smart). "Dinner. Dears. It's ready."

"Thanks May!" Peter launched himself off the couch and pulled Wade with him easily supporting half the man's weight. "C'mon Wade, May makes the best food!"

Dinner was an interesting affair, to say the least.

As soon as they sat down, May launched into her second round of interrogation. Wade seemed to handle it better this time, and if Peter made sure their thighs touched, it was all for the sake of making Wade feel better. Or so Peter reasoned with himself. It did not go unnoticed by his supremely observant aunt who still didn't know how to break it to her protective nephew that she knew he was the Spider vigilante. She wasn't stupid. And Peter was a terrible secret keeper—worse than Peter Pettigrew was for the Potters.

"So, Wade," May said about five minutes after they sat down, "were you in the military? You carry yourself like my Ben used to."

"Yes ma'am, Canadian Special Forces," Wade said, pleasantly. "What branch was your hubby in?"

"He was a marine, through and through. Though truth be told, he grew up a Navy brat," May said, chuckling at the memory of Ben's face and the way she just knew he'd say, "don't tell the boy that, May."

"He seems like quite the character," Wade said, noticing the fondness that crept into both of his hosts' faces.

"That he was," May agreed. She took a bite from her fork before saying, "is that why you cover your body? Do you have scars?"

Peter, who, on some level, had already deduced how sensitive Wade was about his skin (his comments the first time they met as Peter and Wade, had been a dead giveaway), shouted, "What the hell, May!"

Wade tensed and gripped one of his knees under the table.

Peter looked from his clam aunt to his distressed friend—he didn't know why May was acting so out of character or why Wade seemed to resort to self-harm when he was upset, but Peter was done with both. He wedged one of his hands between Wade's bruising grip and his knee.

He gently laced their fingers together, rubbing his thumb over the soft fabric of the red gloves, and said, "you don't need to answer, Wade."

"Uh, yes'm," Wade said, ignoring Peter's words, but squeezing his hand in a palpitating manner to let him know he was grateful for the out. "They're really bad."

"Well, dear, don't let that stop you from eating," May pushed, noticing the challenge in Peter's eyes that shouted, "back off." How interesting—Peter was rarely so stern.

"I'd rather not make your dinner come back up," Wade disagreed, his grasp on Peter's hand tightening a fraction, but did not squeeze like Peter knew he wanted to. "It's a, well a horror show, under here, to say the least, ma'am. Like, My Bloody Valentine meets Jason on Halloween and they fall in love, and their love child got with Chucky, only to be put into a Saw game, kinda horror show, and I don't wanna take you to that show." Wade had really gotten into the rant now, and Peter was starting to realize that his chattiness wasn't as mindless as it seemed on the surface. It was Wade's armor. "My friend, Wease, said it looks like 'Freddy Krueger face-fucked a topographical map of Utah' excuse my French. And he's right, ya know. I told Spidey—you know, Spider-Man signed a shirt for me once, and he's kinda the greatest thing since sliced bread and crocks—no, not the masturbatin' shoes, that was the movie—and anyway, I told him, I said, 'Spidey, I feel like I was put through the meat grinder, eaten by a dog, and shat out' and that's what it looks like under this mask, Miss May. It ain't pretty. And I used to be. Pretty that is. I used to look like the kinda guy every mamma dreamed her darling baby would bring home. But not anymore. You can thank those fuckers from Weapon X for that."

Peter wanted to say something about the fact that Wade had actually said "goat" but instead he just rubbed his hand up and down Wade's leg, trying to comfort him the only way he knew how.

"Well, that wasn't very nice of your friend to say," May said, taking another bite from her plate.

"No," Peter finally spoke up, glaring at his usually so sweet-tempered and kind-hearted aunt, "it wasn't."

"Wade," May said again, ignoring Peter's angry gaze, "did you know I'm a nurse in the trauma center at the hospital downtown? And I told you my Ben was a marine."

"No, Ma'am, I didn't know that," Wade said, but instead of relaxing he tensed even further.

"So, trust me when I say, Wade Wilson, that I've probably seen worse, or equally as bad, injuries, in the many years I've been on God's green earth," May said, her voice genuinely kind, now. "You don't have to be embarrassed. I can assure you, I won't be disturbed. And I raised Peter better than to be put off by a few skin blemishes."

Wade, who knew when he was fighting a losing battle, sighed, let go of Peter's hand, and rolled up his mask to the bridge of his nose. He sat there for a moment, intense silence as if he was prepared for screams of horror and chaos. Or puke, like he'd said. Peter caught a glimpse of the constantly reforming scars that peppered his chin and throat like they had on his hands before Wade took a quick bite of the food and then covered his mouth with his hand while he chewed it.

May leaned across the table and patted Wade's empty hand.

"Thank you for that, dear. And I'm sorry for pushing you like that, I know it was hard. But trust is earned, and you can imagine how I felt when a man twice my nephew's age wouldn't show his face," she said. "I hope you like the food, and I hope you can forgive an old lady her neuroses."

"It's very good, Miss May," Wade said, his voice tight. "And I understand. I'd probably do the same if I were in your shoes. There's nothin' to be forgiven of."

Peter didn't know why May had been so…rude and unlike herself, but regardless, Peter didn't care what Wade looked like, as they were friends. And friends didn't judge shit like that.

Peter kept his hand on Wade's knee throughout the rest of dinner, squeezing it gently at times to remind Wade he was there, and give Wade something to focus on. Eventually, Wade relaxed and fell into telling increasingly unlikely and inappropriate stories and jokes as the night wore on. By the time they'd finished eating, Peter was eighty percent sure that May wanted to adopt Wade and was just happy she didn't seem to know Deadpool by his masked persona.

Peter was in the kitchen washing and drying the dishes (Wade had protested and said he should be the one to do it, but May had waved him away saying Peter needed to earn his keep) as May saw Wade to the door with a nice little bundle of leftovers after they'd finished dinner.

Peter tried not to listen in on their conversation. He really did. But his super hearing made that nearly impossible in the small studio apartment.

"I know who you are," Peter heard May say. He could practically feel Wade tense up and he did too. "I know what you do, or did, for a living."

"I, ugh," Wade sounded a bit panicked like he didn't know whether to run or stand his ground.

"I just want you to know that I don't care," May continued. "You helped out today and helped Peter out when you met. And you seemed like a good man during dinner. You earned my trust, showing your face like you did. Plus, every time you text Peter, he smiles like he hasn't done in a very long time. He likes you, you know. And now that I know I can trust you with him, I like you too."

"Um, thank…you?"

"Just…don't hurt Peter, and we won't have a problem," May said, her tone dangerous.

Peter choked on his own spit.

She sounded vaguely reminiscent of Spider-Man had from that very first meeting. And the fact that May was threatening someone she knew to be a highly trained mercenary, made Peter's skin crawl—yet his Spidey Sense stayed significantly quiet. Peter didn't know if he should laugh or go get his web shooters.

He'd made his way over to the nightstand he kept his trusty weapons in when Wade's next words stopped him.

"I won't," Wade murmured. "You never havta worry about that Miss May. Petey is…he's the first person to show me kindness in a very long time. That means…everything to me." Wade tapped his head and then a minute later, said even softer, "means everything to us."

"Thank you," May said. Then her tone brightened, "it was lovely to meet you, Wade. I hope to see you again. Don't be a stranger, now."

"Yes'm," Wade said, his voice like honey. Warmth blossomed in Peter's chest when he heard, "and thank you, Miss May. Pete is lucky to have you," before the door closed.

Peter was royally screwed.


	5. 5, Of Course, Happens at ComicCon

The fifth time they met, Peter was in the middle of a panic attack as his hero alter ego, and, of course, that's when Deadpool showed up.

Several days after Wade had met May, he'd texted Peter that he was accepting a mission from S.H.I.E.L.D. that would hopefully pay him "enough to eat all the tacos, Pete, you don't even know" and would take him to the deepest parts of the Rainforest. He'd told Peter that he'd be out of touch for a while (no cell service there) and it would take him awhile to complete the mission, "probably only two months, Petey-pie. Don't you worry that tight ass of yours." Wade was gone for five months.

Peter had accepted that at face value. He tried not to think too hard about the fact that Wade still took jobs or that, even if he didn't technically kill anyone, maiming was almost as bad. Peter wanted to keep thinking that the man that had been so nice to him, so sweet, wasn't the cold-blooded killer he logically knew was just under the surface of Wade's senseless rambling. He wanted to keep the delusion for as long as he could because he had the sinking suspicion that this nice-guy act—while not necessarily an act (because Wade seemed to have very strict morals, even though there weren't many)—wouldn't last very long. The other shoe was bound to drop at some point.

In the five months that Wade had been gone, Peter was forced to make other friends so that he could talk to someone who wasn't his aunt (who asked too many probing questions about what he did that made him sound so tired every time he called or ate dinner at her house) or Harry (who Peter tended to spill his guts to in the midst of fighting the Green Goblin, and who always answered in a series of cruel remarks).

On a normal day (when he didn't have the suit to hide behind and give him a confidence he didn't ordinarily possess) Peter was painfully shy and an awkward, rambling mess. However, in theory, he knew how to make friends.

Sort of.

In order to do just that, he'd joined Ned's (the ex-hallmate who let him borrow his Netflix account) study group of two, where he quickly found himself befriending Ned and Ned's roommate, MJ.

Over the next five months, the three college kids became inseparable. The three of them would hole up in the library, studying together, even if it wasn't the same subject (Ned was a Business major, MJ was an English major, and Peter was a Biochemistry major). They'd go to the movies, to restaurants, to parties together. They'd even hang out at their houses and play video games together (Ned and MJ shared an apartment with MJ's childhood friend Felicia, though Peter had yet to meet the third roommate). Eventually, they were known around campus as the three musketeers and if you saw one of them, the others weren't far behind.

Ned became Peter's best friend and MJ became Peter's newest love interest.

About a month into their friendship, Ned had been waiting in Peter's apartment (so they could finish the life-sized Lego replica of Darth Maul they were going to enter into a contest), but Peter had forgotten they'd made plans. So, wounded and unable to heal because he'd been stabbed with alien tech that subverted his healing factor, Peter had stumbled in through his living room window sporting his Spider-Man suit in all its skin-tight, bloody glory. Ned had just stared at him with awe, before launching into a litany of questions while he stitched Peter up (his father was a surgeon and his mother a nurse). Ned's questions included, but were, by no means, limited to:

"Can you lay eggs?"

"What? Ew, no, of course not, Ned."

"Can you talk to other spiders, like the way Harry Potter talks to snakes?"

"Um…not that I know of? But that would be kinda cool."

"Can you spew venom?"

"No, Ned."

"Are you, like, an Avenger?"

"…yeah—I mean, basically."

"Well, how did it happen?"

Peter had let his whole origin story spill from his lips then.

Peter told Ned about the deaths of Uncle Ben, Gwen. and Captain Stacey (and his all-consuming guilt at being the cause), how he'd kind of ruined Harry's life (and had this weird masochistic need to tell Harry everything even though he knew Harry would use it for ammunition later), how he once stole Captain America's shield when him and Iron Man were basically in the middle of a divorce, and his meetups with Wade (and by extension, Spider-Man's leniency towards Deadpool). Once Peter started, he couldn't stop. He found himself pouring out all of his guilt and pain, explained how he basically ruined Liz's life, how Tony Stark was trying to take on the role of a surrogate father towards Spider-Man, and Peter's sinking suspicion that Stark knew he was Spider-Man (because why else would the owner of Stark Industries himself, promote Peter as a personal assistant to his science husband and the Hulk, Dr. Bruce Banner?).

Ned, who probably wasn't expecting such a heart to heart so early into their friendship, just listened to all Peter had to say, popped a bag of popcorn, asked Peter a few questions for clarification, and then made Peter watch several romantic comedies as a remedy for the emotional rollercoaster Peter took, after he'd finished his story. Ned was funny and loyal and a very good listener. He was also a geek in the new age, pop-culture way, as well as in the classical, hacking and good with tech way, which engendered him to Peter's own geeky tendencies even more. Therefore, he and Peter were practically made to be best friends.

However, as much as Peter enjoyed hanging out with Ned, Peter and MJ seemed to be drawn together by some sort of magnetic force.

Michelle Jones was strong and smart and didn't take shit from anyone. When she'd asked Peter to be friends (well, mostly told him they were friends) Peter had agreed, because you couldn't say "no" to MJ without a logical explanation and ample evidence to support your claims. At first, it was hard for him to understand her. She was brash and wasn't afraid to be blunt, but there was a vulnerability in the fact that she used logic and sarcasm and obscure book references as weapons to cover her insecurities. He was no stranger to using humor as a conduit for his pain.

Plus, in a way, she reminded Peter a bit of Wade.

Peter refused to think too hard about the fact that it was her quick wit and the way she seemed to only be kind to him and Ned, more than anything, that drew him to her.

It was three months into hanging out with MJ and Ned, that Peter realized he'd somehow developed feelings for the brash woman and her soft smile. He agonized over what he should do about how he felt, confiding his lady issues to Ned and wondering if MJ was worth it after everything he'd experienced with Gwen and Liz. Ned agreed MJ could take care of herself, as she held a black belt in jujutsu. And so, acting on these feelings, Peter kissed MJ and asked her to be his girlfriend.

She'd accepted.

Peter wanted to believe that he really liked her. He wanted to believe she wasn't just a distraction from the weird sense of loss he felt when Wade failed to come home when he should've or the unreasonable anger he felt when Wade failed to reply to Peter's texts asking where the man was at. He wanted to believe that he felt like kissing her all the time, not just when she referenced Harry Potter or told him she really liked Twilight because of Alice and Jasper.

Somehow, Peter almost had himself convinced that she was his soulmate, even though he didn't like her taste in foreign indie films or books and she didn't understand why he found memes so hilarious or why he listened to bubble-gum-pop as his musical guilty pleasure.

Dating MJ was how Peter found himself strapped for cash and in need for some pocket money to spend on their fifth official date, which he wanted to be perfect like he wanted everything to be for her.

Ned had suggested (in the half joking, half serious way he always said things,) that Peter should go to a ComicCon dressed as Spider-Man because he was sure to win. He was the real deal. Peter had brushed him off, right up until he saw a sign that said this specific ComicCon would be giving out a thousand dollars to the winner of the superhero contest.

So of course, Peter decided to go.

It was loud and crowded and hot in the convention center and it was possibly the worst mistake Peter had ever made. And Peter had made many mistakes in his short life.

Even with the Spider suit doing its best to filter out the sensory overload, the Con was still too much for him.

Ten minutes after Peter had finally gotten through the doors, he found himself in a corner of the convention center's lobby. He sat curled in a plush leather chair with his legs pulled close to his chest, so he could hide his face in his knees, his hands over his ears to block out the noise, and his Spidey Sense screaming danger, run, run, danger, run! at him from the back of his brain.

He did his best to slow his breathing with the techniques he'd found on YouTube after realizing that he freaked out every time a gun went off (likely PTSD because of Ben's death, but he wasn't about to admit that to anyone, let alone himself). Tears leaked out of the corners of his tightly shut eyes as embarrassment washed over him, which ratcheted his nerves even higher, causing his freak-out to become even worse.

That was how Deadpool found him. Having a meltdown in the middle of a convention, while wearing his Spider-Man suit and crying like the child the Avengers swore he was.

He knew it was the real Deadpool (there were a surprising amount of people who'd decided to dress as the antihero) when Deadpool knelt in front of him and said, "Baby Boy?" in a gruff voice that Peter would recognize anywhere.

Deadpool placed his hands on either side of Spider-Man's hips and leaned in close to make sure it was the real Spidey, without touching him.

Spider-Man looked up and saw concern written all over Deadpool's panda mask. How the man got his mask to express emotion was still just as mysterious to Spider-Man as it had always been. That familiarity had him melting into the chair a bit.

His breathing eased.

His trembling and tears stopped.

"Of course, it's our Spidey-babe. I'd know those thighs anywhere," Deadpool mumbled to the boxes, his voice like a balm to Spider-Man's ears for a few seconds. "Yeah I can see he's having a panic attack, I just don't know what to do about it."

The noise from the people milling about grew louder as someone realized that the Deadpool and Spider-Man in the corner were all close and personal.

Someone took a picture.

Spider-Man heard the fake digital lens shutter from over fifty yards away.

Then the excited shouts and chatter roared even louder and canceled out any of the good Deadpool's voice had done previously to get him to relax. The sounds pressed in on him, around him. Made it hard to focus.

He was suffocating.

It was too hard to breathe. There was too much light.

Move, run, **fight**!

Spider-Man dug his gloved hands into the side of his head to try and relieve the pressure building within his mind and stop his Spidey Sense from continuing its chant of get out, run, danger.

He wanted to tell Deadpool what was wrong. Wanted to tell the assassin for hire to get him away from all the people. But he found that he just couldn't get his voice to work. Instead, when he opened his mouth, the only thing that came out was a small, pathetic sounding whimper.

"Tell me what's wrong, Baby Boy," Deadpool urged in the gentlest tone Spider-Man had ever heard from the man. "I promise I'll help. I just don't know what t'do."

Instead of a verbal explanation, Spider-Man signed, "too loud. Too crowded. Need to get out."

He knew Deadpool would understand the sign language as he'd once told Peter that he was friendly with Hawkeye and had needed to learn it for covert missions while he'd been in the military.

Deadpool, for his part, gave Spider-Man a quick nod, then said, "I'm gonna touch you now, Baby Boy. Is that okay?"

Spider-Man nodded. He was desperate for anything that could make it all stop and knew, on a base level, that Deadpool could make that happen.

"Okay, up we go," Deadpool said, sliding his warm palms against Spider-Man's biceps and hoisting him to his feet. He then wrapped a steadying arm around the shorter man's waist and led him away from the crowd, which had gotten even louder at the physical display between the two.

Spider-Man squeezed his eyes shut and practically clung to Deadpool's strong frame, breathing in the familiar scent of gun oil, mint, and Mexican spices. He burrowed into the heat that radiated off the red and black suit, pushing his face into Deadpool's chest as the older man walked them forward—he trusted Deadpool to lead them somewhere safe. He didn't even care that he'd lost so much control that his hands stuck themselves to Deadpool's shoulders and wouldn't budge.

Eventually, the two of them walked into a room that had to have soundproof walls because once they were inside and the door was closed, the noise of the Con halted altogether. Deadpool sat Spider-Man down on what looked like a smooshed bean-bag chair that leaned up against a wall. Spider-Man failed to take in the rest of the room around himself, though, because as soon as he sank into the chair and a soft blanket was wrapped around his shoulders, Deadpool left. Spider-Man wanted to protest because Deadpool's presence was somehow soothing to him, but he still couldn't get his voice to cooperate.

His hands started to shake, his breath sped up, and his Spidey Sense started back up, which, until then, Spider-Man hadn't realized had gone quiet (it had done so the minute Deadpool had wrapped his arm around him, but he wouldn't realize that until several days later). Spider-Man rocked himself in the bean-bag chair for several minutes, staring off into the distance and losing himself in his panic. Then, what felt like years, but was really only five minutes, later, he felt a presence next to him.

Deadpool kneeled before him, just like he'd done the last time. However, unlike before, he presented Spider-Man with a water bottle and held some type of burrito in his other hand.

"You should drink this," Deadpool said, offering the bottle.

Spider-Man was glad to see that the seal hadn't been broken and accepted it with a grateful pat to Deadpool's hand and a signed, "thanks".

He lifted his mask to the bridge of his nose, opened the bottle, and took small sips as Deadpool continued, "White assures me that drinking water can help. As well as someone talkin' to ya. So, Baby Boy, didja know that daddy-long-legs have penises?"

Spider-Man made a sound of choked surprise at the back of his throat, both because he hadn't expected that comment and also what the hell?

Deadpool grinned and shifted so that he sat crisscrossed in front of Spider-Man. Then Deadpool did something that showed he put a lot of trust into the web-slinger: he lifted his mask to the bridge of his own nose, so he could eat the burrito. However, just like the last time Peter had seen him eat, he was only privy to a small glimpse of the scars before Deadpool took a large bite out of the burrito and then covered his mouth with his gloved hand while he chewed.

"No, haha, I swear I have a point—so their difference in sex organs means they aren't technically spiders. Plus, they don't fit the same body type, or have the right number of eyes," Deadpool said, getting animated now, talking with his hands and flinging bits of his burrito everywhere. Spider-Man smiled softly at the fact that he could see the curl of Deadpool's lips (he bore an endearing kind of smile, soft and warm and cute—Wade should smile like that more often) and sat back, letting Deadpool's soothing voice wash over him and calm his frazzled nerves. "And, listen to this, cus it's the coolest part—they don't make venom or webs! We just busted the myth of them being the most venomous spiders on the planet, right there! And, because you're my favorite superhero, Bug-boy, I did more research on spiders, and apparently, scorpions and ticks are also considered spiders, or some shit. Can you believe it?! Cus don't you have a villain in your rogues' gallery that's one of those? And so, we thought to ourselves, we said, 'Pooly, who best to tell us if we're right than the great, voluptuous Spidey-butt?' So, you see Baby Boy, we just had to come see you, to make sure our information was correct."

Spider-Man had a grin on his face by the time Deadpool had finished, a bit touched that Deadpool had researched spiders just because of him.

He cleared his throat, calmer now than he'd been all morning, and said, "scorpions and ticks are considered arachnids, not spiders."

"There he is," Deadpool said, visibly relieved. "I thought I'd lost ya there for a bit. Yellow was so concerned he didn't even tell me to squeeze your perfectly formed glutes, which is a lot, considerin' he tells me to do that even when we're not together. Anyway, how're you feelin' Baby Boy? Also, why're you here if you don't like crowds?"

Spider-Man snorted and once again thanked the powers-that-be for the mask that covered his scarlet blush.

"I'm better now, steadier. And I could ask you the same thing," Spider-Man said, though his voice lacked its usual authority. "Why are you here, Red?"

"Oh! I'm here to win the superhero contest!"

Spider-Man had just taken a sip of the water, and was so shocked by Deadpool's answer, he nearly spit the water out on Deadpool's face.

"Wait, what?"

"Yeah, me and the boxes thought it'd be fun." Deadpool reached beside himself and held up two hangers, one held a replica of his own suit and one held a Captain America costume. Spider-Man was surprised he hadn't even noticed Deadpool carrying the costumes, but, well, he'd been busy freaking out and all. "We couldn't decide between you or Cap, so we brought both."

"Oh. Wow. Okay," Spider-Man said. He hadn't known what he was expecting Deadpool's answer to be, but it hadn't been that. And he was slightly flattered that he ranked so high on Deadpool's list that the merc wanted to impersonate him, instead of Captain America. "That's why I'm here too, believe it or not."

"Really?! Ohmigod, Webhead you're a total closet narcissist!" Deadpool cackled and dropped his costumes to the side, holding his stomach as if he was in pain. "This is too good. Even Pool-O-Vision couldn't make this up!"

"Hey, I wanted the money, alright?" Spider-Man said defensively. "I wanted to be able to take my girlfriend out on a nice date."

"Girlfriend? Oh. Em. Gee. Spidey has a girlfriend! Please tell me it's Black Cat, cus that's some bug on animal action I could get down with," Deadpool said, wiggling his brows. Spider-Man grimaced.

"What? Ew, Deadpool. Don't say shit like that, that's fuckin' gross," Spider-Man said, forgetting his "no cussing as Spider-Man" rule in the heat of how disturbing Deadpool's last comment had been. "And what the fuck is with your fixation on Black Cat?"

"Spidey. You just cussed. What the hell's happened to you since I went away?" Deadpool gasped as he shoved the last of his burrito in his mouth and pulled his mask back down. "First a meltdown, then a girlfriend, and now cusswords? I'd say it's like you're tryna summon me, or somthin'."

"Shut up," Spider-Man said, playfully kicking Deadpool in the shoulder, but not at all hard. He also pulled his mask back down, in order to hide his fond smile. "That didn't even make sense."

"Maybe to you."

Deadpool sighed dreamily, as he cupped Spider-Man's boot and began rubbing circles into Spider-Man's ankle with his thumbs. The material that made up his boots was thin so that the sticky hairs on his feet were able to reach through the soles, so he could better stick to walls while he was on patrol. It was because of how thin the material was, that Deadpool was actually able to reach the tendons around his foot. The mini massage felt so nice, that Spider-Man placed his other foot on Deadpool's shoulder as well. True to form, Deadpool began the same ministrations on that ankle.

"Where are we, anyway?" Spider-Man asked, finally glancing around the room.

It was relatively small. There were a few other bean-bag chairs scattered here and there, but they were the only two in the room. There was also a small kitchenette adjacent to the corner they were in.

"Oh, this is a safe room," Deadpool answered, his tone so flippant it was almost bored. "They have these types of spaces at most large Cons for people like you who, uh, have some sort of sensory issue or other, and can't do large crowds for any length of time."

"Oh," Spider-Man replied, feeling stupid for not knowing that before he'd panicked in front of thousands of strangers. "How'd you know it was a sensory thing?"

Spider-Man could feel the deadpanned looked Deadpool leveled on him.

"I may be an idiot, Baby Boy, but I ain't stupid," Deadpool said like it wasn't a contradictory statement. "You said it was too loud."

Spider-Man fell into thoughtful silence. Deadpool was constantly surprising him and he had to wonder when he'd stop underestimating the antihero.

In a bid to make things less awkward for himself, he pulled out his phone to play a game while Deadpool had his fill of touching Spider-Man's legs. Spider-Man was surprised that Deadpool never once strayed from his feet—he half expected Deadpool to take his silent consent as permission to touch the ass that Deadpool was so fond of and waxed literal poetry about (Wade had sent Peter the Haikus he'd written about Spider-Man's booty).

Just as he went to open his Pokémon Go app, he happened to glance at the time.

"What's the matter, Baby Boy?" Deadpool asked when Spider-Man let out a world-weary sigh and slumped in his seat.

"We missed the contest," he answered, thumping his head against the wall, and petulantly tossing his phone at Deadpool's chest, letting the blanket fall to his waist. Deadpool caught the phone and checked the time, then laughed when he saw Spider-Man's crossed arms.

"Well, don't get your bug-tights in a wad, there's another ComicCon next week. Not as big as this one, but it's a'hundred if you win. That's not too bad for a date," Deadpool said, absentmindedly sliding his hands up Spider-Man's calves and digging his fingers gently into the tense muscles he found there. "Wanna know somethin' crazy?"

"No, but I bet you're gonna tell me anyway," Spider-Man huffed, rolling his eyes and biting down on the moan of relief that almost escaped his mouth from the way Deadpool's hands kneaded his calves. The man had magical fingers and Spider-Man was constantly on his feet, so the massage was wonderous and so very relaxing. He was sure if this continued he'd be asleep in no time.

"The boxes are completely silent right now. Like…I don't hear 'em at all," Deadpool admitted quietly, almost to himself.

"Huh, that—that's nice," Spider-Man replied as Deadpool moved his hands back down to Spider-Man's ankles.

Spider-Man almost begged Deadpool to put his hands back on his calves, however he was interrupted just as he opened his mouth, because a person, cosplaying as Mika from Owari no Seraph, walked up to them and asked, "can I—um, that is to say, your costumes are so, so on point, like, ten outta ten perfect—so um, can I, maybe, get a picture. Of you guys? For my blog, that is. It's dedicated to SideyPool."

"Dedicated to what?" Spider-Man asked, removing his feet from Deadpool's shoulders and standing. He didn't miss Deadpool's disappointed frown.

"SpideyPool? You don't know it?" The person looked from Deadpool, back to Spider-Man, both blonde eyebrows raised to their fake blonde hairline. "I thought for sure…"

"For sure, what?"

Spider-Man had the sudden sinking suspicion he wouldn't like what came out of the person's mouth next.

"Well, I mean. You guys looked like you purposefully came here together, wearing your costumes and all. And it's um, kinda like...an underground ship?" the person said, sounding unsure of themselves.

"Ship? Like me and Spidey-babe…together? Together, together?" Deadpool asked. The person nodded hesitantly, and Deadpool let out a loud whoop. "Hell yeah! I knew I wasn't the only one that shipped us—no, I know this is a fanfiction about exactly that, and this is the author doing a slutty, shameless self-insert, I'm just sayin'."

"But we—they—have only met…" at this point, Spider-Man couldn't keep track of how long he'd known Deadpool. He turned to Deadpool. "How many times?"

"Three," Deadpool supplied. "They musta seen us team up during that Hydra attack, Baby Boy."

At Deadpool's preferred nickname, the cosplayer let out an excited, "squee!"

An honest to God "squee".

Spider-Man facepalmed. He had no words.

On the one hand…people shipped everyone with everyone these days, but on the other hand, him and Deadpool? He hated the fact that a sharp spike of heat rolled through his lower abdomen at just the thought. He did not like the sound of that. He just didn't. He was with MJ, remember?

"Sure, honey, you can have a pic," Deadpool said when Spider-Man fell speechless. "Do you want us to pose?"

"Oh my gosh, would you please?" the person asked. Their eyes were so bright with genuine delight, that Spider-Man's shoulders slumped in defeat and he relented with a nod. "Thank you! Thank you so much! Spidey, can you, like, cling to Deadpool's chest, kinda how you do when you climb walls?"

Spider-Man rolled his eyes but looked at Deadpool.

"That okay with you, Red?" Spider-Man asked.

"That is so fuckin' cool with us, Baby Boy," Deadpool answered, making grabby hands, but not touching.

Without another word, Spider-Man climbed up Deadpool, which was easier than he thought it should've been. He settled at Deadpool's side, linking one arm behind Deadpool's neck, and resting his feet against Deadpool's thigh to keep himself from falling, which created the spread thigh pose he was sure the person had meant.

Deadpool slipped one of his hands against Spider-Man's thigh to hold him steady, and the other hand fell to the small of Spider-Man's back. Yet again, Spider-Man was surprised he didn't slip it down further to cop a feel.

The Mika cosplayer brought their phone up to their face to snap the picture, just as a sudden burst of inspiration hit Spider-Man. He used his other hand to grip Deadpool's jaw, tilted Deadpool's masked face up, ever so slightly, and planted a mask covered kiss on Deadpool's cheek.

The cosplayer lost their shit and Deadpool went rigid under Spider-Man's hands.

"Uh, Spidey?" Deadpool asked after the cosplayer left, thanking them profusely. His voice wavered just a bit.

"Yeah, Red?" Spider-Man asked as he kicked off Deadpool's thigh and backflipped to the floor. It was a lot more graceful than simply crawling off Deadpool. He was not showing off. He wasn't.

"Did I…um. What just happened?" Deadpool asked, his hand reaching for one of his pistols. "I'd shoot myself in the foot to check if that was real, but I have a feelin' you'd disapprove."

Spider-Man's stomach clenched in guilt. He hadn't realized Deadpool would be this affected by the kiss. He'd just wanted to put on a show for the fan who'd thought they were just cosplayers. Of course, that'd been all there was to it.

"I kissed your cheek for the picture, Red," Spider-Man said, biting down on the urge to grab Deadpool's hand and link their fingers.

"Right," Deadpool said. "Of course. For the pic. That makes more sense."

"Anyway," Spider-Man said, rubbing the back of his head. The sudden awkward tension between them could've been cut with a knife. "Thanks for helping me out. Do you, uh, maybe wanna go on patrol with me tomorrow night?"

Deadpool, who'd been in the middle of collecting their trash, froze and turned back to Spider-Man.

"Wait, are you serious?!"

"Uh, yeah. I mean, you've proven yourself to be a good guy," Spider-Man said, noticing the widened eyeholes of his companion's mask and knowing Deadpool was astonished at being put in the same sentence as good. "I trust you not to unalive anyone. Meet me where we first met, at nine."

"Oh, Baby Boy, I am so there," Deadpool said, leaning down and kissing Spider-Man's forehead before bounding away. Just as he reached the door to the room Deadpool called over his shoulder, "by the way this so counts as the first date!"

"No, it doesn't!" Spider-Man shouted at Deadpool's retreating back, but it was too late. He'd already disappeared out the door.

Spider-Man looked down and saw Deadpool's discarded costumes. With a sigh, he took them home with him and hung them on the cork board over his desk in his new apartment, right next to the note and the card Deadpool had given him.

It wasn't until Peter was sitting across from MJ at their favorite pizza place, later that night, and MJ asked, "what's got you so happy, Tiger?" that Peter realized he'd been smiling like a dork all afternoon.

"You," was his reply to her.

He tried not to let his guilt for the easy lie bother him too much.


	6. And Then it all Goes to Shit

]The sixth, seventh, and eighth times they met were while Spider-Man was on patrol and Deadpool went with him.

Before they'd gone out criminal-hunting during meeting number six, Spider-Man had given Deadpool an extensive lecture on the use of force that fell right in line with the New York city polices' definition of when it was okay to use excessive force (he may have quoted directly from the NYPD website just to make sure Deadpool was clear on where the line would be drawn.) Right up until they'd encountered their first perp, Spider-Man had been sure the Rugrats theme song had played in Deadpool's head during his lecture (Deadpool had been worryingly silent the entire time, but that also could've been because Spider-Man had pinned him to a wall, in all his super strength glory, to make sure Deadpool knew he'd meant business). However, Spider-Man had been pleasantly surprised to find that Deadpool was actually good at subduing criminals with the least amount of force possible. Spider-Man had rewarded the merc's good behavior with a piggyback ride to his (their) apartment(s).

The seventh meeting lead to Spider-Man realizing that Deadpool was the best kind of back up to have during patrol, due to his speed, agility, strength, intelligence, and overall assassin skillset (besides the murdering and torturing people parts.) He realized this when, while trying to stop a seemingly simple cut-and-dry robbery, they'd accidentally disrupted a drug cartel's operation. Spider-Man had been knocked out by a few goons and taken hostage. However, Deadpool had saved him, right before the leader of the cartel had ripped off his mask. Deadpool only maimed two of the twenty people in the abandoned warehouse. Spider-Man counted it as progress and rewarded him with a long (and lingering) hug of relief and gratitude.

After both of those patrols ended, Deadpool asked to get food.

"It's so we can watch the sunrise while we eat, Baby Boy," Deadpool tried to convince him. "It's my secret remedy to relaxin' after all that adrenaline build-up. Or, you know, we could do other things that would…release some tension. If ya get my meanin'?"

Deadpool always stepped close, close enough Spider-Man could just lean up and slot their mouths together, if he ever felt so inclined. He never did. Kiss Deadpool or even felt inclined to do so. Obviously.

"Ew," Peter would say, pushing Deadpool gently away with his hand. He chose to ignore the way his hand sort of…lingered against Deadpool's pecs every time.

Deadpool would laugh and Peter would swing away, his face scarlet under his mask.

The eighth meeting was an accident.

Spider-Man had gotten in a fight with the Green Goblin, as always. However, this time, the Goblin had retrofitted his weapons with alien tech. Needless to say, Peter got out of the fight by the skin of his teeth, webbed up the Goblin for the police (even though he knew Harry would just be out on the streets by lunch the next day), and headed home, bruised and bloody, with large, un-healing gashes on his thighs and across his ribs.

He'd crawled through the window of what he'd assumed was his apartment, only to be met with a gun in his face and a familiar whiskey-deep voice saying, "take another step and I'll blow your brains out."

"Wade," Spider-Man gasped, knowing it was likely the only thing to give Deadpool pause. Wade lowered his gun, and Spider-Man realized he was only wearing a pair of loose, grey sweatpants and a soft lounge mask. His chest was naked, the shifting sores and scars and healing wounds on perfect display for his greedy gaze. Spider-Man had about half a second of admiration before he said, "help me."

Then he promptly passed out.

The next morning, he woke up on Wade's couch, not wearing his suit. He panicked for half a minute before his hand touched his face and came into contact with his Spider mask.

"Your suit was in shreds," came Wade's voice from the kitchen. Spider-Man turned to see Wade, now wearing a shirt, flipping a pancake at the stove. "I had to cut it off to stitch your wounds, Baby Boy. But don't worry, I was gentlemanly. Didn't take a peek under that mask of yours. Didn't even cop a feel of that glorious Spider-booty, neither. Also, I made pancakes! They're the best for regeneration, trust me—haha, you're right, he shouldn't trust us! Fuck yeah, three-oh-three rules!"

Spider-Man got up then, walked up to Wade's tense, broad back (Jesus he was starting to realize he had a bit of a size kink), and hugged him from behind. He pressed his forehead into the space between Wade's shoulder blades and inhaled his familiar scent.

"I do trust you, Red," Spider-Man said, softly. "I trust you a hell of a lot more than I should."

Then his stomach growled, and Wade had made him sit down at a rickety table and eat the mountain of pancakes he'd made. Spider-Man didn't mind, he just basked in the easy domesticity of it. And when he looked up at Wade, as the older man served him more pancakes, Spider-Man realized that he really was in trouble.

Somehow, along the way, Wade had gotten under his skin. Spider-Man relaxed in the man's presence and felt good and right when he did.

He knew, just knew, Wade couldn't keep the good act up forever, even if he wanted to. His brain wasn't wired that way. He was a mercenary and Spider-Man wasn't stupid or innocent, he knew what mercenaries did and got paid to do. The Deadpool suit was also outfitted with more weapons than any one man should be able to carry, Spider-Man had noted that on day one. No one in their right mind could ignore the danger that bubbled just below the surface of Wade's charming (but mostly impulsively insane) personality. Spider-Man knew it would all blow up in his face eventually, it was just a matter of when.

But he just couldn't detangle himself from Wade—the older man had somehow carved his way into Spider-Man's life with both his katana's and he was there to stay like a loyal guard dog, Thor help him.

Their ninth and tenth meetings were outside of the uniforms.

Their ninth meeting happened at Aunt May's, actually.

Apparently, while Peter wasn't looking, Wade had become May's BFF (he had her wrapped around his little finger, as evidence from the amazing lemon meringue pie she'd made for dessert that night—May had always said she'd hated making the meringue when Peter asked her to make it) and they had a standing Tuesday night date to watch Golden Girl reruns. After dinner that night, Peter and Wade fell onto the couch while May had sat in the rocking chair. Peter, who'd brought his dinosaur of a laptop with him, so he could type up his lab notes that were due, just leaned against Wade's side while the other two watched the show. He loved listening to Wade's laughter, which was a pleasant enough background noise that he was able to write the entire thing in one sitting (usually he couldn't focus long enough to do that). Peter was also secretly addicted to Wade's warm body (which he'd chalked up to Wade's healing factor constantly being in use to fight the cancer), which was the reason Peter refused to see the knowing look May tossed his way as he snuggled under Wade's heavy (grounding) arm.

Their tenth meeting, Peter hadn't been able to sleep.

He was prone to insomnia now since his body never really got a chance to get a full sleep cycle. He'd been roaming the halls of their apartment complex on his skateboard to keep himself entertained, having just come back from patrol, high with adrenaline, and not having any work or class the next day. When he'd made the fourth pass by Wade's door, he finally stopped and rapped his knuckles against the blue door.

"Thought you'd never knock," Wade laughed, opening the door and motioning for Peter to come in. Peter stepped into the frighteningly similar apartment and looked Wade up and down. He did not feel disappointed when Wade was fully clothed…in, was that a matching Spider-Man sleep set?

"Can't sleep," Peter said by way of explanation, flopping down onto Wade's couch. The TV was muted but he watched the ending of Prisoner of Azkaban play on the screen. "What's your excuse for being up at three in the Goddamned morning?"

"I rarely sleep, Petey-pie," Wade said as he went to the kitchen, pulled something out of the fridge, and came back to sit next to Peter. "You look like shit, Pete. Here, have a taco."

Peter was becoming used to reading Wade's obsession with Mexican food. Where the British responded to anything potentially upsetting with tea, Wade responded with tacos.

"It's cold," Peter complained but tore into the food anyway. He snuggled up to Wade's side (Wade already had his arms open and waiting) as Wade flipped through some channels before settling on football. Peter's nose wrinkled. "Ew. Why'd you wanna watch that?"

"It's only the greatest American—"

"You're Canadian."

"—sport of all time that—"

"I thought that was baseball."

"Pete. D'ya mind if I speak?" Peter made a negative sound at the back of his throat, nuzzling his nose into Wade's chest like a cat looking for pets. Wade chuckled and slid a hand into his soft hair. "Anyway, what d'ya care? You're about to fall asleep, sleepy-head."

"Say tha' to m'face," Peter mumbled, letting Wade's warmth soak into him as he drifted off, relaxing into the hand Wade had begun to card through his hair. "Dare ya."

The last thing he heard was, "Loki's greasy black hair, he's so fuckin' adorable—I agree, Yellow. We are in, waaaaay too deep. But I couldn't care any less."

Peter woke the next morning with a post-it on his forehead that read: "Food in the fridge. Don't know when I'll be back. Stay safe."

A chibi Deadpool with heart-eyes was drawn at the bottom corner.

Peter crumpled the note in anger and then immediately regretted it. Wade had been doing so well. What had gone wrong?

Their eleventh meeting started with Spider-Man throwing a punch at Deadpool's face. The older man just barely ducked before Spider-Man's fist smashed into the brick behind him.

"Nice to see ya too, Baby Boy," Deadpool said, but there was a warning in his tone. Spider-Man ignored it and webbed Deadpool the wall.

"Where the hell have you been?!" he screamed, getting right into Deadpool's face and slamming his fists down on either side of Deadpool's head. The brick crumbled against the force.

"Aww, Webs, were you worried about me?" Deadpool asked, leaning his face down so their foreheads touched.

"It's been a month, without any word of your whereabouts." Spider-Man knocked his head against Deadpool's, but his temper was quickly fading. "Where were you, Red?" His voice was sadder than he meant it to be.

"I uh, I quit," was the answer he received.

Spider-Man staggered back in shock, the bottom of his stomach dropping the way it did on roller coasters or when driving too fast on small hills.

"You…what?"

"Oh, shit. No, Baby Boy, that's not what I meant," Deadpool said quickly, noticing Spider-Man's distressed tone. "I quit the mercenary work. Hung up my katanas, as it were. Well. Not really, cus my babies need exercise. But you get my drift…I think. Anyway, I decided to stop taking assassin jobs, ya know? Only, I had a few ex-employers take insult and decide to try'n kill me, but I made sure they knew I was for real, ya dig? No take backs, amiright? S.H.I.E.L.D. got word, decided to send some goons to rough me up, get the downlow, whateves, and so I had to go to ground for a while. But now I'm back and on the strait an' narrow—yeah, we've never been straight or narrow in our entire lives—and I only take S.H.I.E.L.D. approved jobs or jobs that's just a bit of light roughin' up now. But I wanna be in the hero-ing beeswax, with you, Baby Boy. I wanna be good for ya."

"Oh," Spider-Man said, when Deadpool's words sunk in (the last sentence sent a sharp jolt of heat into his stomach—and yeah, he'd need to examine that later.) "So, you quit mercenary work for good?"

"Kinda, yeah," Deadpool answered, leaning their heads together again. Spider-Man could see Deadpool's grin through his mask and had stopped trying to figure out how the man expressed emotions with the panda eyes. "Sorry for worryin' you, Spidey-babe."

Spider-Man nodded and ripped the webbing away from Deadpool's body to free him. When Deadpool was standing, Spider-Man slid his arms around the taller man's waist, hugging him hard.

"Guess you missed me, huh, Baby Boy?"

"Yeah," he answered to both their surprise. "I really did. Don't leave like that again."

Deadpool nodded, wound his arms around Spider-Man's back, and sighed, "I won't, Spidey. I promise."

"Good. You wanna patrol with me?" Spider-Man asked, even though he felt exhausted.

"Sure thing, Webhead," Deadpool agreed easily.

Later that night, Spider-Man finally accepted Deadpool's offer of some post-patrol tacos. After that Peter lost count of their meetings. There were many, both in, and outside of, their suits. As Spider-Man, he and Deadpool regularly teamed up, to the point they'd worked out a patrol schedule and Spider-Man had gotten a burner phone so him and Deadpool could text. As Peter, he and Wade had become so inseparable, that he spent most nights at Wade's place because it was easier to sleep when he knew Wade would keep the bad guys away or wake him up if he started to have nightmares.

It was in this way that he'd forgotten to be scared of just what Wade was capable of.

They were sitting atop a high-rise, the one that had become their meeting place, chowing down on Chinese (he'd finally, finally convinced Deadpool that there was more to life than Mexican) when Spider-Man heard a woman's scream. He immediately set his food down, made sure his mask was back in place to cover the bottom half of his face, and swung away without a word. At this point, they ran together like a well-oiled machine and Deadpool knew how to follow him from the streets when Spider-Man didn't have time to give him piggy-back rides.

It was a two-man mugging and Spider-Man got to the alley just in time to see a mother trying to shield her son as one of the muggers pulled out a knife. He thrust it forward, towards the woman's heaving chest, as the other man taunted her from behind his friend.

Stepping into gear, Spider-Man said, "Hey, don't'cha know it's rude to shove knives at ladies in fluffy sweaters?" just as he shot some webbing at the guy's hand and kicked the guy in the head, sending him flying into a nearby lamppost where the man crumpled into an unconscious heap.

"I mean, really, what's wrong with these guys and their manners?" he said to the crying woman and her son. "Must have mommy issues. Anyway, go ahead an' leave, I'll take care of this." The mother grabbed her child and hightailed it out of the alley, stopping only to grab her purse.

"Not even a thank you from the bitch."

Spider-Man turned at the voice to see the second man's face twisted into an ugly smirk.

He never saw the man pull the gun, but he heard the shot anyway. For a moment he thought he'd been shot. But when he looked himself over, he was fine. Naught a scratch to be found.

He looked up to see Deadpool, arm rigid, holding Clyde out towards his would-be murderer. Spider-Man followed the line of Deadpool's muscled arm and watched as the mugger's limp body fell to the ground with a sickening squelch. He looked back at Deadpool with shock, but it wasn't hisDeadpool he saw. His Deadpool wouldn't have just shot the guy. Not his charming, kind, funny, soft as a teddy-bear Wade who'd been taking tougher guys down with better methods these past months. No, this Deadpool was someone completely different. He wasn't talking, or making jokes, or laughing. He was silent and cold and deadly. He was a killer.

Spider-Man ran over to the man and held him up towards the light, chanting, "no, no, **no**! Please don't be dead. Please. **Please**."

But he was too late. There was a hole in the man's head and his eyes were glazed over and starring, unseeing, up at the night sky.

Spider-Man's body began to shake, and tears welled in his eyes because he wasn't seeing the mugger anymore, he was seeing Ben. His uncle. His dad. Laying helpless, lifeless, in his arms because he hadn't been quick enough. Good enough. Smart enough. To stop any of it. Fucking again.

"Baby Boy? You okay?" Wade's familiar voice broke through the blood and adrenaline rushing in Spider-Man's ears and he snapped his head up to glare at the person he'd trusted when he knew he shouldn't have. The person he'd hoped would prove him wrong.

"What—what the actual fuck, Wade?" Spider-Man shouted as he dropped the mugger's limp body to the ground, which sent brain matter splashing up onto his masked face.

Spider-Man felt bile rise in his throat. He lifted his mask just in time to lean next to a dirty dumpster and puke up the Chinese he'd just eaten not even an hour ago when they'd been laughing and trading puns. He brought his hand up to wipe his mouth when he saw the blood that coated his gloves. He needed them off.

Right.

Now.

He ripped them off with his teeth, but the blood had soaked through to his skin underneath. He gagged and coughed up more bile as he scrubbed his hands on his suit feeling dirty. Helpless. Small.

Stupid. So utterly, completely stupid.

And the blood wouldn't come off.

It kept sticking to him like a bad disease and he could barely breathe with the scent of piss, and vomit, and blood in the alley clogging his nose. Suffocating him.

A sharp pain went through his head as he hunched over, heaving the last of his stomach's content onto the cracked pavement.

His eyes watered.

He couldn't breathe. Couldn't think.

His Spidey Sense screamed **dangerous** , for the first time ever in Deadpool's presence.

He clutched his head with both hands trying his best to remain in the present. What the fuck had Wade done?

"He had a gun. He was going to shoot you," Wade finally said, making a move to comfort Spider-Man but thinking better of it when Spider-Man began to laugh hysterically.

"My Spidey Sense would've warned me!" he shouted, getting up on his feet and backing away from Deadpool. Backing away from the…the murderer.

Fuck, he should've known it would come to this. He was running around with Wade fucking Willison. Who did he think he'd been kidding?

"You told me yourself, your Spidey Sense is faulty." Deadpool's tone was calm, like they were talking about the weather, not like he'd just killed a man right before Spider-Man's eyes.

"Only around you!" Peter (yes Peter, because he decidedly didn't feel like Spider-Man at the moment—Spider-Man made him feel in control and he was so not in control at the moment) roared because fuck Wade and his calmness in the face of fucking death. "You didn't have to shoot him! You could've wounded him, or warned me, or cut his arm off with Bae, or—or fucking something! You could've literally done **anything else** , Wade!"

"I didn't have time to think," Wade said, reaching out to touch Peter's shoulder as if touching him with the hands that had just killed would ever make Peter feel better.

Peter laughed again, because, fuck, at one point that had been true. He'd let a known assassin comfort him. Many times.

A small part of Peter's consciousness reminded him the Wade had just quit the mercenary business. Peter ignored it.

Peter jerked away from Wade; the first time he'd ever avoided Wade's touch.

"And your first instinct was to kill," he didn't say it as a question, because he knew what the answer would be.

He'd always known what the answer would be, he'd just been deluding himself. And even though he'd known this would happen, knew this was just the way Wade had been programmed, since Weapon X, it didn't stop the stab of utter pain and grief from slicing his chest open and making him feel like his heart was being ripped out.

"Your life will always matter more, Baby Bo—"

"Don't—don't call me that," Peter said because he couldn't—couldn't let Wade call him Baby Boy, make a joke, and smooth his anger over like what he'd done didn't go against every fiber of Peter's moral code.

"But—"

"No—I, I just can't, right now," and though he didn't think it was likely, he added in a dangerous tone (the one they both knew he only reserved for the worst scum he'd come across), "don't follow me, Deadpool."

When he'd made it home he immediately went to the shower. Numb and running on autopilot, he peeled his suit off, which had stuck to him with drying lifeblood. He turned the shower as hot as it would go and scrubbed himself.

Peter couldn't stop seeing the mugger's lifeless, cold eyes, Ben's scarlet blood as he said his final words, and the pain on Captain Stacy's face in his final moments, when he squeezed his eyes shut. He couldn't stop hearing Gwen's spine crack in the silence of the crumbling clocktower or the anger in Harry's voice when he'd told him about his father.

He kept scrubbing.

And scrubbing.

And scrubbing.

God. Damn. It.

But the blood didn't stop swirling pink down the drain.

It took him an hour to realize it was his own blood. He'd scrubbed so much that he'd actually peeled a layer of skin off his body.

His knees gave out and he sat under the water until it was so cold, his teeth chattered, and his healing factor had covered him in a new layer of skin. Woodenly he got out, dried off, and fell face first into bed, passing out the moment his head touched the pillow. That night his nightmares were the worse they'd ever been, with Wade starring in most of them as a man holding a gun to Uncle Ben's head. To Captain Stacy's chest.

After the fourth time he woke screaming, he padded barefoot and naked to the living room, completely giving up on sleep. He looked at the phone he'd left lying on the stand next to the couch.

 _304 new texts and 14 voicemails from **Wade**._

Peter tossed his phone against the wall, shattering the touchscreen. He picked up his burner phone (it had fallen from the pouch he kept it in when he'd stumble through the window), hoping to scroll through Pinterest until he felt better, but that was one of his dumbest ideas, to date.

 _98 new texts and 28 voicemails from **Red**._

The next day Peter got new phones and changed his numbers.

Three days after that he'd moved back in with May. He told her he'd had a major fight with Wade and that his place had a rodent infestation, and, besides, his lease was up anyway. May seemed like she wanted to say more, but let it go.

All of Wade's messages went unread for a week.

They went unanswered for three.

It took Peter three weeks to realize that maybe he'd over-reacted.

Wade had only been trying to save him and Peter knew that, at the end of the day, Wade really was a good man. He'd been given ample evidence of that through all the times Wade had basically saved his life, in one way or another.

It took Peter three weeks and losing his best friend to admit that he needed help in dealing with his PTSD and survivors guilt. He decided to join the PTSD group that Steve Rogers conducted every Saturday.

He met up with them the Saturday of week three (of course he went as Spider-Man—he still couldn't let anyone know his identity), and saw that though there were few in attendance, he was in good company, with Bucky and Sam Wilson and, surprisingly, Stark. He talked to them about what happened, being as vague as he could and making sure they believed this hypothetical friend who'd triggered his meltdown, was a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent.

Cap looked at Bucky and said, "Son, you can't let this outlier effect your whole friendship, if this person has been good to you. Friendship is sticking by someone, even on their worst days, and not letting your personal issues interfere with that."

He was right. Peter couldn't let one incident of his overreaction set back all the good Wade had done or all the progress he'd made. Plus, it wasn't like he'd killed the mugger for fun, and he'd been down to his last resort. Peter needed to make it right between them.

Spider-Man called and texted Deadpool's numbers accepting his many (several thousand) apologies and asking to meet up so they could talk. But by then, it was too late—Wade had left the country and wouldn't be back for nearly six months.


End file.
